I've now moved in with the Sloth, who probably began to regret that decision around the time she saw my scarf and shoe collections, and definitely regretted it after we threw out at least 40 bin bags of assorted crap (including, amongst much else, my large Warrior Cat book set and my Cheryl Cole 2010 calendar), and surely must have wanted to kill me (and possibly my ancestors by way of a time machine) after the epic bout of cleaning we did last weekend. Yet she did it all with a smile on her face (or possibly a grimace) and for this I am very grateful. However, things came to an unfortunate head during the first few minutes of unpacking my books, while we stood in the living room surrounded by - and I do not joke in the slightest - mountains and mountains of my possessions.
Sloth: What are you doing?
Me: Unpacking?
Sloth: You're putting the books on the shelves already?
Me: Yes? I'm putting them on in order, obviously. I'm not crazy.
Sloth: *slow but horrified expression* What order would that be?
Me: Genre. Of course. Then size.
Sloth: *looking extremely pained* Not... not in alphabetical order?!
Me: What? No! Who does that? How the bloody hell would I find anything?
Sloth: You'd find it by knowing the alphabet.
Me: No way! They're going on by genre. I don't even... if you put them on alphabetically, they'll be all higgledy-piggledy! Small books next to tall books! That's chaos. It's aesthetic vomit. I'm not having it.
Sloth: What's the problem?
Me: DO YOU EVEN HAVE EYES?
Sloth: Yes, I have eyes. Eyes that can see the alphabet. I'll buy another bookshelf if I have to, I simply won't subject my books to this horror.
Me: I don't even know you any more!
There was a brief pause.
Sloth: Still love me?
Me: Of course. But you're a barbarian and there's no saving you.
Sloth: Okay. I'm still right, though. You can blog about this and see who agrees with who.
Me: Fine. I will.
