Happy Birthday, Dear Caviar

I sit here in an empty room, except it's not empty, it's full. What I suppose I mean is that the shelves are empty, the wardrobe's empty and my brain's a bit empty along with it, but luckily all that space-occupying stuff which has occupied such space over the last nine months is now occupying the space inside boxes and whatever space is offered by the floor. Yes folks, it's a long-winded way of saying "I'm moving out of this room soon".

Firstly (well, not really firstly because that first paragraph was firstly so I suppose this is secondly, but whatever, just go with it), I have not recounted the adventures from a week's worth of vacationing in Northern Germany in this kind of incoherent, consistent, mind-melting rambling style what I always do, which is a shame because it should've been up here as soon as I got back.

-But Jamie, why not do it now instead of this?

Because I've packed up the book that has all the words from off of my German adventures in it, and without such verbal stimulation, my complete stupidness of a brain refuses to remember what happened. Hell, right now, I'm not even sure I was even there. It could've just been one big hallucination that began at that point in Manchester Airport where I let myself loose onto the runway and sniffed a vat of Kerosene or whatever magical petrol-like substance it is they use to make those things work. (I would like to point out that the above mentioned event did not actually happen. Or did it...?) So tales of holidays will come, and I'm sure they'll be amazing, but right now I've got a room full of nothing to talk about.

Currently, there's a load of boxes all reporting for duty lined up along the wall, backs straight, rather cuboid-like posture. The notice board is completely free of notices, except for them there mandatory ones what came with the room (you know, the stuff that tells you the address, the internal number to ring in case the Internet goes "nah, I'm bored now", and what to do in the event of a fire [turns out you vacate the building. Who knew?]). The TV Licence is cancelled and hopefully I shall be reimbursed for my unused £36.37, whilst for now the TV's hiding under the desk in case any of the apparently non-existent TV Licence Enforcers who've been harassing us all year show up unexpectedly and burst through the door all guns blazing to raid the place in scenes reminiscent of the life of Anne Frank.

In fact, the only thing remaining up is this 'ere computer what I'm using to type up this little communiqué and unleash it unto the world. That's actually a lie. The other half of the desk (where the TV once lived) is now playing host to plates, pans, various implements of culinary derivation, cutlery and teabags because I didn't have enough boxes to pack up all my kitchen stuff, so instead I just transferred it all from its home in the kitchen to temporary refuge in here. I don't know why I'm getting all nostalgic over vacating the room because I'm simply leaving all my stuff here for two weeks before coming back. Then I can worry about shifting it all and start crying about "how much I'm gonna miss this place and shit" even though I'm not.

(I'd just like to take a brief pause to mention the loud crowd downstairs who decided to let off fireworks right outside my bedroom window earlier tonight. They've just taken a quick break from the loud music to sing "Happy Birthday", although I can't help thinking I've misheard them chanting the name of the recipient of birthday singage at the line "Happy Birthday, Dear Caviar")

I'm not exactly sure what the point of this was now. It was probably something to do with me packing up stuff during the weeks, only to discover I have a finite amount of boxes and have gained more stuff over the year and appear to have more than what I arrived with. It might've been to notify you of the "Coming Soon" post about a holiday I took the week before this one where I, apparently, was in another country, but unfortunately I forgot this since the notices have been taken down. It might've been to tell you how much I've started talking to myself pretending I have a radio sidekick who collaborates with me on the words I speak and somehow, in a session of making a cup of tea, I managed to have a conversation with myself where I deduced my belief that Cliff Richard, Bruce Forsythe and Her Majesty The Queen are in fact three of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, due to their apparent immortality and inability to just end. They will be here, and continue to be here, long after we mere mortals have departed this Earth, long after we have vacated our Halls of Residence. I am yet to conclude who the fourth member of this elite group is.

Of course, if one of those three people happens to die in the 0.17 seconds it takes between me clicking Publish and this lot of words appearing all Internet-ready then that's pretty much my theory buggered.