I'm moving house today, typing this while waiting for the removal van to arrive. I was away till late yesterday and had done at most a couple of hours packing before going, but I was still able to take a very leisurely pace getting everything into boxes and suitcases today. This somehow seems wrong. In Michael Mann's great film Heat, Robert De Niro's character, a resourceful, charming and incredibly self-contained career criminal, has a maxim about having nothing you can't leave in 30 seconds flat. I'm not quite there, but still. I never wanted to be a career criminal though. I'd have liked to have had the self-possession, the confidence of being in command, but I'm not really equipped that way; I don't have the nerves, let alone the stamina or the stomach, for it. And of course Heat is the story of a man increasingly unable to walk away from the loyalties that despite himself he can't help but accumulate, in the end forced to choose between them and survival. So you wonder. I turned 30 while I was away. How is it I've got to 30 with a life that can be packed up in a few hours and could probably be walked out of considerably quicker than that? Where are my traces?