although this young Apollo, or whoever he is, won't be coming with us: he's part of the terrace (quite literally: his plinth is cemented in). He manages to retain a certain dignity even though the movers (very efficient ones - Allied, "the cheerful movers," so far live up to their slogan) have stacked up some of their many boxes against him. I've taken so many pictures of this statue (and manipulated them in various ways) over the last four and a half years that it seems only fair to give him one more outing: his profile against the cypress is one that I've borrowed and deployed to various ends (put me in a sculpture gallery, or a cemetery, with a camera, and I'll be happy for hours).
He is, of course, about the only tranquil thing about this house today - I never want to see another cardboard packing box or plastic crate or remnant of strange enthusiasm that one finds at the back or bottom of things (weird vitamin potions buried deep in the freezer, disconnected bits of exercise equipment, things I'd hoarded thinking I might Do Something Artistic with them) again. Oh, and I wish that I knew in which of 50 cartons or so my only respectable black pants that I'd left out - somewhere - might now be.
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