If it’s Sunday that must mean I’m over at mum’s in the garage just sobbing at the sheer amount of stuff I am moving from one place to another and not really doing anything with.
Here’s the thing. My dad hoarded the shit out of stuff. No-one is averse to a old toothbrush finding a second life as a cleaner of assorted things. No-one is averse to a new toothbrush going against the grain and heading straight into the cleaning things that aren’t teeth game.
But hundreds of them?
I don’t even think that’s an exaggeration, particularly. I have been throwing toothbrushes away since my dad died which was a few years ago now. I threw out some more this morning. I’m sure they weren’t there last week, but they were definitely there today. And some more, in a bag, in a drawer. They’re everywhere.
Today was also about reducing the amount of things on wheels in the garage. Everything is on wheels so it can move about. But there are a lot of things. Today I tackled two Ikea units which used to be in the front room of my parental home, but have since been relegated to the back of the garage where they hold bits and bobs.
I started taking them apart with a kind of reverence. Like I should look after them should they need rebuilding at any point. And then I noticed the damage and the fact that dad had redrilled a good few of the fixing holes and I realised that these were freakish Frankenstein’s Monster units.
When you know that, it just becomes a process of creative destruction. I discovered that I could undo these units in such a way that they would open, and destroy themselves in the process, like a flower. Each side slamming into the ground and ripping screws asunder.
I kind of wish there had been more of them.
Once they were gone, it was time to throw out a few more of the Granny Diaries. Yearly records of everyone’s birthday’s, and time she paid money to anyone (in an indecipherable code of letters) and occasional thoughts on the day she’d had. Also a standing record of the death of Princess Diana (underlined), the King’s Cross fire and the time she fell over with her hands in her pockets and broke her ankle. A fact which was carried forward into subsequent years of her diary.
Also many a memorable account of a family visi. “Rained. Stayed in.” And things of that nature.
One diary for every year.
Not filled out like Bridget Jones, before any of you complain. It was mainly just that she’d sent money to people or that others had died.
One diary for every year.
She was 90-something when she went.
I’ve not even scratched the surface.