I have this new theory that the way to make my life as long as possible is to move all the time. I say this because when I think back on my life I seem to divide it into chapters based on where I was living (or what job / church/ friends). This is possibly a consequence of reading too many novels, to the point where my memory is a contents page. If I remember back casually, the current chapter (four years in the same job, five years in the same house) seems to take up only the same amount of time as my mythical nine months in the hills, the primeval six months living on Canning Highway with Mitchell. (The illusion can be dispelled – to an extent – by reclaiming the time, thinking back over everything that occurred in that time.)