A Sunday, as good as any other. Temperature’s reaching thirty, I’m enjoying a lunch with bunch of mates, indulging in foreign cuisine, hmmm, so good it’s almost bordering debauchery. Yet there’s a cloud hanging over my head. Or rather two of them. The first one that makes me run to a car just seconds after parting ways with friends, the other one slightly larger, harsher, more irritating, hanging exclusively over me. I am moving.

I’ve been moving all my life. While some people never leave their village, I cannot count a number of beds I laid my bones across. I do not mind — I really don’t; it’s only the act of actual moving that makes me a bit dizzy, slightly nervous and remarkably unpleasant.

To fight above mentioned distress, I invented and over the years mastered and perfected a recipe for moving:

Point one, above all, is — don’t panic. That should be written in large, friendly letters on any recipe anyway.

Point two, almost equally important — do nothing. For as long as possible, ignore the inevitable. Act as if nothing was to come. Pretend it’s business as usual. Ideally, do not even talk about it. Keep it for yourself. The more people know, the more people ask annoying questions. The more people give you advice. The more people want to attend a farewell party and (often the same ones!) a housewarming one.

Point three — listen to music that can be enjoyed quietly in a lounge. Trying desperately to avoid using that derogatory word lounge music. Basically, we’re talking about something The Wilbury brothers would approve of. Something between Ray Charles and Beck. The choice is yours. Relax, take it easy. You may even want to try breathing exercises. They come handy soon.

Point four — without discussing this point in detail, please google Blitzkrieg. As fast as humanly possible, the following has to be done: pack all the necessary stuff, sell everything that is not necessary and can be sold, give away or throw away (meaning recycle) anything that cannot fall into previous categories, disconnect services, move out, move in, unpack, reconnect services. Welcome home!

Point five — have a cigar and a decent drink. You’d need it, trust me. Scotch, quality wine or cranberry juice are acceptable. Having bath is essential to stay sane.

Hovering between third and fourth point, and trying to move on (a bit sarcastic when considering to move out and move in), I’m contemplating. Looking around, recording a final reel of a surreal mental flick set in this place. Everything comes back in flashbacks. Each piece of a furniture, each spot of an apartment tells a story. If they can be memorised, they go with me. If not, they have to stay behind, I don’t feel like taking prisoners. Of course, there’s a scent of nostalgia in the air, though evaporating as soon as I get to the blitzkrieg point.

And then — once unpacking is complete, I’ve had a bath and maybe an imaginary Red Apple cigarette, it’s time to start filming a new flick somewhere else. Actually, I can’t wait.