Crisis and catharsis at the fleamarket

Helluva year so far.

Let me recap the blogless months. I visited the States and got engaged to a lovely Statesian lady. My father passed away. I got married, in Scotland, in a kilt, to said lovely lady. I visited the States again. Now I'm waiting on the outcome of a petition for a visa to be able to live with my wife stateside. All while trying to breathe life into my start-up company and keep the pennies flowing in, while stopping too many pennies from flowing out.

Helluva year so far.

One of the issues with moving (and moving in) after 44 years of singledom and 12 years in the same flat is that I have stuff. Too much stuff. And it can't all cross the pond and fit into the new flat apartment.

Solution: fleamarket.

I could just try to tip all my stuff into the big communal bin, of course, but that (a) wouldn't bring in any pennies and (b) isn't very socially/environmentally sound. I like money and recycling.

The problem is what to sell and what not to sell. Some stuff is a relief to get rid of, in the manner of baggage that you never knew you didn't need. In other cases, if you decide to heart-wrenchingly part with an item, and a week later it still hasn't been sold, what the heck is wrong with it anyway?

Plus, my living-room is full of plastic stackable boxes, and likely to be so for a few months.

Ah! Life, eh?