A life in boxes.

I have just completed an interesting little exercise... I jotted down all of the places I have lived and how many times I have moved house.

Twenty-one times.

Luckily, a large part of my work consists of moving stuff around, so I have learnt to do it fast. But it was rather challenging on Friday. Icy cold, intermittent rain, snow on Table Mountain.

Five times of the twenty-one was when I was still a child, living with my parents. Contrary to my mother's best intentions, I turned out to be a magpie. Moving my chattels is an epic production. My beloved swing gang were there to help me - Sam arrived with his trusty old truck and Julius and Roger laughed every time I warned them of a particularly heavy trunk or box. Being the ex wrestling champion of Cameroon, Roger lifts a washing machine with two fingers.

Utagawa Kuniyoshi

We finished the job in five hours. My worldly goods are now in storage and I have a few months to find a new place to live. This is what happens when your rent unexpectedly - shockingly, is to go up by fifty percent. This is what happens when you rent from friends, without ever signing a contract. It's also a city bowl problem, with rents sky-rocketing and people willing to pay anything to live there. I am not. So, for now, I am on the peninsula, with my batterie de cuisine, two bags of clothes and the one I love, in his snug house. A fire in the grate, birds gorging themselves on a peanut-butter-filled pine cone in the garden, key lime pie and coffee.

Driving over the mountain pass yesterday, all misty and sparkling, the waterfalls cascaded down the cliffs, ending in billows of foam. And I remembered something that I forgot to tell you about: the sound of thousands of bees when you stand on the edge of a canola field.

So loud the air vibrates.