Two days ago, I lived in a different house from the one I live in now.
And two days ago, I owned several pairs of scissors.
Over the course of the weekend, all of my belongings were wrapped in paper, packed in boxes, loaded on to a truck or my car, driven across town, unloaded (in the rain), and then unwrapped and slotted into new drawers and cupboards and wardrobes and shelves.
Only now, there are no scissors.
Scissors are handy things to have when you're unpacking - they can slice through packing tape and bubble wrap, open boxes, and cut into the pizza you're heating up because you can't find anything in the kitchen.
People say moving is among the most stressful life events - like divorces and weddings - but it's not, really. It's just time consuming.
As fast as you can pack things into boxes, more things appear to be packed, tucked in the back of cupboards and sheds, where they've been forgotten since the last time you shifted.
There's a theory that if you haven't looked at something since last time you moved you should probably throw it out, and I'm sure that's good advice (although surely one day there'll be money in my set of consecutive 1996-1997 Rip It Up magazines).
And that's what I'm sure I would do if I had time to carefully sort through my belongings, throwing away pens that have run out and old swimming pool concession passes.
But packing never works out like that.
At least for me, it always ends up that 10pm the night before the truck is due, I'm throwing stuff into boxes wherever they'll fit and, when the boxes have run out, tucking them into drawers and bags and suitcases so that one way or another, they'll get to the new house.
Which, I presume, is what happened to my scissors.
But on the plus side, I found a soccer ball, a yoga mat and a bag of extension cords I didn't know I had.
Perhaps the scissors will turn up next time I move.