Re-reading the NGJ manifesto, and suddenly think... what on earth were you doing name-checking a random bar you go to in the second paragraph of something with an actual purpose?

I mean, I already knew that I should have proofed it before posting it, but this is just ludicrous.

EDIT: "Frontier Psychiatrist" comes on and I excitedly reach out for a wine glass, sending it crashing towards the floor and its future as pseudo-crystal. So let's tell a story.

Boxes have changed.

I'm in the process of preparing to move house. This is never my strong point, as a human being. Working out what X thing is so good about Y game, yes. Putting everything in a box so it can be easily carried before the day I have to move... no. But in the two years since I've last had to drag my carcass from one shithole to another... well, as I said, boxes have changed.

When I last moved, Sainsburies provided piles of fruit packing trays. Now, you must understand, that even this was a step down from the mid-nineties height of the humble re-appropriated card-board box. Then you could walk to any major supermarket and get a grand array of assemblies of carboard.

But when it comes to packing this time around, I scour supermarkets to discover that even the fruit-tray option has disappeared. Now all that remains are wine boxes.

Wine boxes.

Now, you can see the logic. Shoppers who want to pack items in a cardboard box will be able to still pack them in a selection of cheap Pinot Grigio containers. It makes no difference, and is far more convienent. And if it fucks people over who want to steal boxes from shops... well, fuck 'em. If they're moving, they probably won't even be shopping here anyway.

There's other solutions which I'm sure I'll resort to before the weekend, but my current one is simple. Also, fiendish. I go to the supermarket, every day, and pick up an armful of boxes and run, run away.

Simple, I know, but that's always been my strength.

The only problem remains that the wine-cartoon size boxes are among the more awkward objects to carry in the universe. Three, in a pincer is about the best you can do. More if you cheat and include slightly smaller boxes inside the larger ones, but that comes with the cost of destroying all the muscles in your hands when you attempt to somehow support such a gargantuan weight with a clenched mass of digits. Christ - I tried to carry eleven from Waitrose today, and my it felt as if my fingers had been sliced from my body for a half hour afterwards.

But, slowly, I've appropriated boxes. And filled them. A metre behind me is a mound of sealed packages of assorted books and CDs, waiting for transport. But if you just look into the room, it does look like I'm the world's worst middle-class alcoholic.

So packing and carrying packing. You may think I wouldn't be that happy.

But, as a side-effect of my rumaging, I've located my copy of the Avalanches album that's been missing in action for over a year. It's playing, so everything's delirious, everything's painful, everything's... well, in boxes in the floor.

But they're my boxes. And I'm taking them to the future.