"Because less is more, since the house move, my husband has been embracing asceticism. He wants me to embrace it too"

Saturday, 10am, my husband and I are in the cabin. We are “sorting your books out, once and for all”.

Because less is more, since the house move, my husband has been embracing asceticism.

He wants me to embrace it too.

He has become very attached to the maxim, “less is more”.

I am much less attached to this maxim.

“I am really, really tired of this aphorism,” I say.

“I like it,” he says.

“It had its uses when we were moving house,” I say, “but you can stop saying it now that we actually have less.”

“We still need to shed more shit,” he says.

“We have no more shit to shed,” I say.

“The context has changed. Saying ‘less is more’ now is like saying, ‘every cloud has a silver lining’ when someone’s just fallen down a well.”

He drops four books into a large, dusty crate.

I move fast to the side of the crate.

“This is the last of the big sorting jobs,” he says, dropping more books into the crate without reading their spines, “you even said yourself you need to sort them out.

“I mean, what do you need them for? You’ve read them all.”

“Not all,” I say, clamping myself to the side of the crate.

“Well, get rid of the ones you’ve read and keep the rest. Seriously, less is more.”

“Seriously, stop saying less is more. Pick another maxim to replace ‘less is more’. Go on, pick one right now.”

“Every cloud has a silver lining,” he says.

“Apart from that one.”

He picks up Diana Athill’s memoirs, Tortilla Curtain and Diary of a Provincial Lady without checking their covers and drops them into the crate.

I throw myself at the crate, catching Athill’s memoirs as they fall.

“I know,” he says, “what about your mum’s favourite - ‘life’s a bitch and then you die’?”

I climb into the crate to retrieve Provincial Lady and Tortilla.

“‘Life’s a bitch’,” is perfect,” I say from the bottom of the dusty crate.

10.30am. I am not happy with proceedings; with strategic positioning, quick reflexes, and speed-reading book-spines, I have made several crucial saves. `

Amongst these are six books by Elena Ferrante, and a copy of Gone with the Wind that I’ve kept for 35 years.

“This must be what it’s like to be a goalie,” I say, throwing myself across the top of a box and catching The Denniston Rose as it falls, “this is like soccer, but with books.”

“It’s only things,” he says, “come on Schmeichel, on with the job.”

8am, Sunday morning, and my husband is sitting up in bed, looking straight ahead.

I follow his gaze to the far bedroom wall. There is nothing on the wall.

“What are you doing?” I say.

“I like looking at empty walls,” he says, “it’s restful.”

“They do it in industry,” he continues, “all the time, you know.”

“Do what in industry?”

“Rationalisation,” he says, “to make companies more efficient, by getting rid of superfluous staff and equipment.”

“Our life is not an industry...” I say.

“In the future,” he says, “we should only have things that we need, not want.”

“...and superfluous to whom?”

8.30am. I have dispatched my husband to shake out rugs.

He is outside on the decking, shaking two small kilim-rugs over the river.

He comes back into the kitchen with one.

“Where’s the other one?” I say, “the little one I love? The small flat-weave with the beautiful jewel colours?”

“You didn’t tell me there were two,” he says, “I didn’t realise you’d wrapped the little one up inside the big one.

“So I just shook the big one out and then the little one fell out.”

“Fell out where?”

“In the river. It went in and took off under the bridge really fast.”

My husband and I look over the wooden railing. We look downriver for my little kilim. There is no sign of my little kilim.

“Really sorry,” he says, going back inside,”but cheer up, it’s only a thing.”

I follow him inside, quickly establish the whereabouts of something that is only a thing.

I return to the wooden railings with something that is only a thing.

“Where are you going?” he says, following me back outside.

“What are you doing with my bike?” he says, “I hope you’re joking. You’re joking, right?”

“Come on Schmeichel,” I say, “on with the job.”

Because less is more, since the house move, my husband has been embracing asceticism. He wants me to embrace it too