Slowly the cryptic webbing of mortality and matter is easing its grip. I can feel it. The house is finally letting us go. We are slowly packing up boxes of books, wrapping individual pieces of dinnerware in bubble wrap and cotton wool and foam rubber, and dismantling the shelving which was put up in the halls and rooms. The paintings are being wrapped in blankets to protect the glass. Nothing is going to be rubbing or scraping against anything else. The tug of war for utilisation of available space is coming to an end. The house is about 150 years…