The white elephant in the room

Everyday more of my stuff is going out the door. Cupboards, drawers and shelves are getting emptied. Old paperwork is being trashed and pictures coming off the wall. Five boxes of books that I (mostly) like but also know I won't read again are packed ready for a sale later this month.  

The one thing I haven't yet tackled is the box of 300 or so cassettes under my bed. Yes, they have been gathering dust for four years. Yes, they are of little use to me - especially since i gave my cassette player - with two tape decks for the purpose of um 'copying' cassettes - to the red cross yesterday. But almost every one of them tells a story. Compilations made by me, a lover or a friend, covers made of postcards lovingly cut down to size (CDs were too big to do this :-(.) Many I have already digitised, but I still really don't want to dump them, although I know they are of no economic value. Parting with my cassettes is actually more painful than parting with the remnants of my vinyl collection. They are (were) part of my life and identity. Anyone who has read High Fidelity will understand the importance of a hand-crafted mix-cassette.  

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