If you are of a certain age the above four words will almost certainly have brought to mind the phrase "and they're all made out of ticky-tacky". You might even have started singing this song.
It's been on my mind a lot recently, because we're about to exchange one box for another (and probably a further box to follow, but that's a tale for another day). Not sure if they're both made out of ticky-tacky, but the place we're moving to, built in 2002, probably meets the description better than the 1876 crumbly we're leaving. I don't think they knew what ticky-tacky was in them days.
But we've certainly experienced plenty of boxes looking the same, as this photo proves.
I have made up boxes, filled boxes, sealed boxes, carried boxes, stacked boxes, for days on end. I hate boxes. I am boxed out. I crave box rehab. Box me no more, don't cry for me argent boxes. It's probably for the best that I didn't have enough time to watch the Grand Prix today because if I'd heard one driver being told to "box, box, box" I'd have punched the television (which I can't do because it's in a box).
But the end is in sight. Here's the same view after two nice gentlemen, one of them a red headed Orcadian ( you felt the need to know that, didn't you?), picked up all of our boxes and stacked them in a very large and very dark blue, and very box shaped, lorry.
And.........
Relax
Until we have to start unpacking those bloody boxes again.....
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