Yesterday I collected some boxes which had been in long-term storage at Curmudgeonly Former Housemate’s new place.  (Note: CFH has in the past vainly protested me calling him a curmudgeon, and now that he will soon be moving to a different country I might be willing to grudgingly admit that he’s really not a curmudgeon at all and I’ll miss him very much.)  Unearthing these is like a finding a little time capsule into the Life of Caitlin Past.  We found a box inexplicably labelled “FURNITURE FEST” “DANCE GEAR” “RANDOM STUFF.”  We debated what “furniture fest” could possibly mean.  Did it actually say something else?  Furniture, Rest?  Furniture c’est?  Furniture Test?

The mystery remained while I took CFH out to dinner for his troubles.  As we walked back I said, “Oh no…now that song is stuck in my head.”

Unwisely he replied, “Which song?” One of CFH’s pet peeves about me is that I cannot remember song lyrics.  This does not, however, deter my enthusiasm.  I thereupon launched into a completely unintelligible rendition of…something I no longer remember which had been playing in the background at dinner.  (Let’s pretend it was Common People.  EDIT: I have just remembered that it was in fact Mr Big’s To Be With You & aren’t you glad I came back to clarify this very important point?)

When I finished he said even more unwisely, “Well, I have no idea what that was, but at least it wasn’t Hungry Like the Wolf.”

Naturally I seized this golden opportunity, prancing along the same path upon which I was singing to dispel the darkness on a few weeks ago: “I smell like I sound!  I’m lost and I’m found!  SOMETHING SOMETHING! AND I’M HUNGRY LIKE THE WOOOOOLF! [pause] Mars is aligned!  Feelings unwind!  SOMETHING SOMETHING!! AND I’M HUNGRY LIKE THE WOOOOLF!” (When I don’t know the lyrics I will generally make them up, or try to cover up for it by distracting people with my dancing.)

We rapidly ran through our entire knowledge of Hungry Like the Wolf lyrics and I was laughing too hard to continue so we moved on to an ill-advised rendition of Don’t Stop Believing.  This song has previously caused CFH to look at me in mingled horror, disgust and confusion while saying “How hard can it be to remember the words WALKIN’ DOWN THE BOULEVARD???”

We laboriously get through the bit where the city boy and the small town girl get on a midnight train goin’ anywhere and then… “Something something SMOKY ROOM, something something CHEAP PERFUME!”  My vindication that CFH also has to substitute ‘somethings’ for random gaps in this song is noted with disdain.  We continue to style it out: “Something…something…UP AND DOWN THE BOULEVARD!! Shadows searching in the niiiiiiight!  Streetlights, people…something something… goes on and on and on and ooon…”

It’s been some time since I had the opportunity to mortify CFH with my terrible, terrible singing.  Something about getting those boxes out again seems to have unleashed a whole former self.  Or it could have been the wine at dinner.

This morning as I opened each box I marvelled at what things seemed essential to take with me when I moved in here compared to what I left behind.  Books I love dearly greeted me like old friends.  Knickknacks, gewgaws and sundries sprung forth.  Among these was an entire unused set of Thanksgiving-themed paper plates and napkins.  I seem to have a continually replenishing vault of these–my parents just sent a whole new set for this year’s festivities so now we can all make hats out of one set or something.  (Or I’ll put them somewhere and forget about them until next year after my parents have sent yet another set, which is what usually happens.)

“Furniture fest” turned out to be four blocks that a bed frame can balance on to make it higher up for better storage space and an unopened British Airways hospitality pack with toothpaste and an eye mask.  Bounty indeed.