We’re not quite at the moving stage of moving house, but we’ve definitely entered the pre-packing stage. As a hoarder, this stage is painful to me. Hubby clears things out regularly and so most of the things in our house belong to me and since we’re downsizing, I’m supposed to be being ruthless. I’ve never been ruthless at anything, maybe that’s why I was never any good at sport and why I very seldom get annoyed at losing at cards, not that I lose very often mind you. I thought I was doing well, I’ve already thrown out a pile of old calendars from as far back as 1998. One for each year we’ve lived here, but Hubby apparently thinks not and keeps offering stern words of encouragement.
I’ve been busy digging into all the little corners and cupboards where I’ve hidden away things in case they were needed later. And as for the shed… well, I blame my grandfather, Pop, for that, “It’ll come in useful it it’s never used”, he used to say, and very often it did come in useful as it was used. To be fair, although it’s become a bit of a joke, “Mum’ll have one in the shed”, the contents of my shed have saved the day on many an occasion.
I’ve been up in the attic today, passing down boxes and boxes to Hubby who seemed almost too happy at the number of bags and boxes which I sent straight to the back garden for a trip to the tip with Youngest Son-in-Law this afternoon. He ended up doing two trips for me, taking the first load himself while I set about an old set of shelves from the back of the shed and piled up my reserve bits of wood and piping. I still have to sort through my tools and a few more boxes of bits and bobs but that’s a job for maybe tomorrow.
Youngest Daughter is coming round tomorrow, after her ,”mandatory weekend lie in”, I’ve got a few boxes, and bottom drawers of old broken electrical stuff that needs to be sorted out. You know the type of stuff, old phones, remotes for TV’s we no longer have, chargers for phones which don’t exist anywhere other than in a museum anymore. I do like moving house, but all this “ruthless” lark can’t be good for me.
I’ve still got a few more places to sort out, also a few more things that I can’t find. At some time or another I think pretty much everyone has had a go at writing a book, I know I did when my girls were small. They were particularly frightened of wasps and so one year we bought Eldest and Middle Daughters a little soft toy each in the shape of a wasp, it’s wings zipped together to form some sort of cocoon around it and I wrote them a story about Wendy Wasp who lived in a cake shop. I’m not too sure where they are at the moment, I’m sure they’ll turn up.
I did find my original handwritten versions of my attempt at writing a novel though. “Ivor Gunn”. He was my private investigator and I had a whole string of stories ready for his character and a variety of others. I even wrote a sequel. That was before I realised that since my reading age hadn’t got very far above thirteen, then my writing age couldn’t be expected to be very far from the same number.
Still, everyone can dream and my dream of semi-retirement at the seaside is so close I can almost hear the seagulls. A new home in Weymouth, not quite a stone’s throw away from the beach, but less than a five minute walk from the boats. And the semi-retirement bit … I can see the tunnel, but cant quite see as far as the light at the other end yet, but “One day“.