The office is the last bit to unpack: abandoned manuscripts! Traces of quixotic careers! Xrays of my fractured pelvis and cracked skull! Photographs of everyone I've ever known loved or hated! What fun.
Though the installation created a sticky tugging sensation - possibly the last strands of my working class identity shredding against the sharp edge of reality.
Regardless: the books are unpacked. I can now sit here in the reading nook, a childhood fantasy finally realised, reading favourite nursery rhymes.
The man that killed the ram, sir, was up to his knees in blood / And the boy that held the pail, sir, was carried away in the flood.