I’m not a spring-cleaning person. I’m the idiot who stands there at the start of autumn, instead, and thinks “oh shit, it’s time to do something about this.” The piles of books that wash up at the edges of every room. The papers placed into that “I’ll get to that later” space, the space that eventually collapses under the mass of papers and becoming a dust-haloed black hole. The teetering cairns of CDs waiting for shelf space to appear. Eventually the day comes when I have to mask up against the dust and go in like one of those specialists who clean crime scenes.