I must have dropped off to sleep before waking to the thump of the novel that tumbled from my hands. Victorian novels: heavy, dense, soporific affairs - not be to read by firelight on a cold winters night. The fire was well into its last embers and in need of fuel and a good stoke. As I leaned to toss in the remnants of a Heywood Wakefield coffee table, happily reduced to kindling from the salutations of my trusty sledgehammer, a second thud, this time from overhead, distracted me from my task. Cranky bastard. I tossed a table leg into the fire and made my way for the stairs to the second floor where I'd close a window, shut a door or tend to whatever needed tending to.

The 20foot U-haul punctuated the gray and silver cavalcade of mid-sized luxury cars and SUVs with a burst of orange and a hookah puff of smoke from the exhaust pipe. Inside the cab, a front seat argument was taking place regarding the merits of the present adventure. It struck one agitated protagonist that U-haul could probably provide a cheat sheet for such occasions - given the number of times their cabs played host to contests of logic regarding whether to move or not, and wouldn’t it be easier to sell the contents or better yet to throw them away; or why not hire a moving company instead of soliciting the help of family and friends? This road trip, though, was unique in the annals of U-haulage, as the back of the 30 foot moving van was empty, and would remain empty unless one counted the packing blankets and ratchet straps her boyfriend’s friend insisted on bringing.