Footnote

The boxes of crap that I'd put together for him to take down to the charity shop or otherwise dispose of, which he took upstairs to his bedroom in lieu of a more durable solution to the whole Living Room Space Issue, I eventually successfully needled him into bringing back downstairs and getting out of the house.

They are now sitting outside the house on the path leading to our front door.

When I made the mistake of suggesting that his behaviour might be defined as passive-aggressive he snarled that 'this doesn't need psychoanalysis' and proceeded finally to do a little bit of what I was asking to do, though not without snidely adding that I could have taken the boxes down myself.

Yes, and my reward for doing that would have been to endure a monumental sulk because I'd thrown out (among the hundreds) that one paperback he'd been intending to read or read again. Yes, and they're not my fucking books either, you grossly overweight lazy, cheating, thieving, feckless, amoral, sick, twisted moron.

Well hey, 48 hours after he took decisive action those boxes of books are looking a tad limp, having been out in the wind and rain that is so typical of late English summer. Now those books he wouldn't have me simply throw out are, um, ruined. Guess what the charity shop will do with them when they unpack them (if they even do that).