Well I’m amazed if you’re still reading, thank you and well done. This last bit of clearing my mother’s house has been so work heavy, I’ve just done that and nothing else. Some things have turned out well, some less so, but over all has been the problem of dealing with piles of junk. I am writing now surrounded by boxes of books.
Not knowing how much of the stuff we wanted from my parents’ house, I erred on the side of caution, especially in consideration of how spectacularly badly the goods and chattels did in the sale room. All of my life I have been fed the extreme cleverness of my father in shopping, how brilliant he was to buy eighteenth century this and nineteenth century that and how many millions it was going to be worth. What a crock of crocky things that turned out to be! The first sale of all the household stuff and all the silver plated cutlery and so on made a thousand pounds the lot. The gigantic dining table failed to sell and the eight chairs that we spent so much time re-gluing and looking after, sold to the trade for £20 the set.
Fortunately the care home manager was happy to accept the table (which separates into three parts and stores in not much more room than two wheelchairs) as a gift and also the coffee table set and had a van to fetch them.
Having seen how wonderfully awfully things failed to make money I rescued some other stuff and on Monday we loaded a van full at that end and unloaded it at this end, promptly filling the house here with junk. I have incorporated our own junk and am currently sifting into ‘dump’ ‘charity shop’ ‘keep’ ‘loft’ ‘cupboard’. To do which I’ve had to clear the cupboards out first.
I HAVE BEEN SIFITNG JUNK SINCE MAY 3rd.
Not writing, not making dolls, not gardening not doing any of the things that constitute what you might call my life, such as it is.
The one bright spot was when the crane lorry driver, who was a gent, a hunk and incredibly skilful, pulled the second lion off his metal spikes with a slight plop, loaded them both carefully on to the truck and delivered then to the family members who are now enjoying them. I think my father would have been happy and I know they are.
My mother, meanwhile, had her ninety-first birthday the day after the white-van-crammed-with-junk day. The care home manager had cleared a huge table with plates in the dining room. Of course it was just the three of us. We arrived to find her covering her possessions, which she had piled in heaps on every flat surface, with towels. She says she is sorting out. Is she channelling me or am I channelling her? I have no idea, but she has been doing this for a few weeks now. The carers pop up while she is having dinner and put it all back again.
I would love to tell you more but there are piles of junk calling to me. So far there are five big bags of books and more to be filled for the charity shop. I always though that I would write a book and it would be cherished posterity until yesterday when I dropped a leather-bound Dickens into a charity shop bag without so much as a second glance. There is a possibility that making as little mark on the planet, especially the landfill of it, is the way to go after all.
If anyone would like a random bag of junk they will be available in quantity at the shop on the high street from tomorrow.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When you see a pile in the neighbourhood, who you gonna call? Crapshifters!
One Response to Tidying up.