(A true story)
“Label all the boxes,” I said, for the hundredth time. “We need to be able to find things when we get there.”
I passed around Sharpies and glared at anyone who suggested they might get to it later.
Of course, a computer is only as good as its programmer and a label is only as good as its writer.
So I stand here, in front of a wall nearly high enough to keep Donald Trump happy, and every single box is labelled. I should find my boots no trouble.
Except a full 24 of the boxes are called “Basement: Misc”