That â€˜old long termâ€™ was symbolised by solid wooden furniture, permanently nailed together, the new era by flat-pack kits. While the rooms change, the objects â€“ heaved from flat to flat â€“ provide the continuity. Records and books are relics of that old stability, the very solidity that is their appeal a problem, a drag, in the age of digital ether. Moving from one rented property to another, from one job (and â€˜skill setâ€™) to another, itâ€™s unlikely that I will ever have a â€˜homeâ€™ in the sense that my parents have one. This provokes ambivalent feelings: Iâ€™m well aware that keeping on the move revivifies at least as much as it drains, that the old, limited horizons were constraining, but the thought that there could come a point when I won’t move again is increasingly alluring.