A couple weeks ago, N was over.
She, kind and good friend that she is, comes over every couple weeks, and does my heavy lifting (and I love her for it. Well, love her more, because I love her anyway).
She told me, on her previous-to-last visit, that I "have to do something about that basement." Meaning, "Sort out my house and finally get unpacked, dammit."
I know. She hasn't said anything that I haven't told myself a thousand times.
And I promptly returned to my knitting and the book I was reading and forgot (meaning, didn't bother to do anything) about it.
Well, we had 80 mm of rain on Monday and Tuesday. And I think most of it is sitting in my basement. One of the stacks (somehow, I don't know... mhmm...cats?) toppled.
The top box, of books (oh, my dear sweet precious books), was splayed open, on its side, in the puddle, soaking up water (clean water, thank FSM).
I hauled out the bit of paper with the number of the company I was considering on it, called it, left a message, and steeled myself to spend some money. It's time.
I can live in a less-than-stellar space. My books deserve better.