I've only organised belongings in this way a few times since, usually when navigating strong emotions after a break-up, the loss of a job or in bereavement. Slotting Belle & Sebastian's Tigermilk in beside Beck's Midnight Vultures was satisfying a tiny act of feeling a bit sorted when, outside of that house, family life made me feel anything but. Most of them lived in my tiny bedroom at my dad's house the place I felt most relaxed and, importantly, where I got to spend time alone. Organising my CD 'library' – strictly alphabetically – was part of it all. Melodies, middle-eights and baselines spoke to me. My relationship with music was terribly serious then, you understand. But despite not having touched a CD for over a decade, that awful jumble of plastic spoke of a purer time when teenage me, armed with new intel from NME and The Face, would spend my waitressing money in Bishops Stortford's Our Price on a Saturday morning. They've been heaved around for sentimental reasons, obviously the dusty, crunchy-cased relics quickly became redundant once Napster, then Spotify, came along. During the last few moves, as I've slid a giant sports holdall bulging with CDs into the back of another van, I've thought: never again. The precarity of London renting meant I was doing this for the 15th time in 17 years. Rewinding back to December, my things were packed to move house. I've pondered CD cases more than I would have anticipated during a global pandemic.
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