Today, I unpacked the last 22 cubic feet of books. Music and reference books went into the big Victorian bookcase in the study; atlases, art books, comics, graphic novels, and ancient bound volumes of “Punch” are in the even bigger Victorian bookcase in the sitting room, and everything else is stacked on the six-foot folding work table in the storage area of the basement.

So far, only four of the nine sections of folding bookcase I ordered (and paid for) have arrived. I was expecting six yesterday but only one was delivered, leading me to spend an hour I’ll never get back to find out from Amazon where the hell the other five are. It would appear that they never left the “third-party” vendor’s warehouse, so I should wait. Okay. I’m accustomed to waiting, but my toe is tapping.

Without all those boxes of books, the dining room is airy and spacious.