Oh dear.  Moving house in eight days, a husband on another continent who is claiming non-communication due to loss of phone charger, 37 degrees with no air-con and only one working fan, a school project due tomorrow to build as high a tower as possible using only 50 straws and sellotape (which, at the moment makes the Leaning Tower of Pisa positively vertical), a ‘crazy’ themed costume to come up with for tomorrow and I have had a MAJOR sense of humour failure.

The thought of packing up our small house after five years didn’t faze me in the slightest.  I was so utterly thrilled to be moving that the actual logistics of doing so didn’t even cross my mind and then, when I did think about it it was with a keenness to undertake a massive cull, the requirement for which has been like the proverbial albatross.  Talk about underestimation… The amount of utter rubbish we seem to have accumulated is absurd.  Happy Meal toys in triplicate anyone?  Baby clothes, blankets, toys – just in case.  I’m worried I might be done for loitering in the lane behind the local charity shop at this rate.  And I haven’t even dared tackle my dressing table where you will find a box of teeth in the bottom drawer – please someone tell me, what do I do with them?

Nor have I sorted through my stationary crate containing, among other useless items, recycled wrapping paper (which, when I come to use it seems curiously more crumpled than when it went in), odds and sods of ribbon (most too short to go around any parcel), cuttings (cuttings get everywhere) and an awful lot of cards.  I have a thing for cards, and seem to buy many when in an interesting frame of mind (still life shots of stones and dodgy adult humour seem to feature heavily) or as ‘just in casers’.  Many are now missing their envelope due to pilfering for permission slips – poor William would win the prize for most interesting envelope every time – he’s had hot pink, Cath Kidston spots and, to his eternal shame, one with baby footprints on it (that was to pay for the bloody band pizza lunch he couldn’t possibly miss!).  But still they remain, maintaining my minute portion of the house that no-one else is interested in.

But I digress, (as usual).  There are apparently people –some of my good friends in fact, who are not hoarders (I should ask them what to do with the bloody teeth) and I want to know, WHY NOT?  Funnily enough, if my the person I’m thinking of is representative, they are also efficient, reliable, highly organised and absolutely on the ball.  All the things I’m not.  So, channelling ‘Monica’, I am trying to make ruthless my middle name…

OUT

Lego Head sorter

I was desperate to buy one of these as soon as I saw them.  And more desperate to give it away once we had.  The original Lego head, massive but still cute!  It spent its entire tenure with us in bits, no-one got the sorting part, the top two layers were simply an impediment to the bottom layer where all the cool bits lived. I love Lego in all its glory but they must have road-tested this add-on on very organised, disciplined children which, sadly, mine are not…

Having admitted defeat, I am expecting smugness in the extreme from Him Indoors who, on the arrival of the Lego Head questioned its longevity.  I think he gave it six months.  It’s now been almost a year so it’s a win:win for me – I won the longevity challenge and I’m also, thank god, rid of the bloody thing.

 Baby clothes etc.

Kept just in case.  There is no just in case – full stop.

Magazines

A huge pile that got left too close to the edge of the verandah to miss the storm I didn’t realise was forecast.  Gutted, Red mags dating back to 2007, crucial for work purposes – or something…

STAYING

Gran’s fish slice

This fish slice was once the victim of a dreadful heist that might have had cataclysmic effects on my relationship with my brother when he and two p***ed friends nicked it from my flat in Edinburgh and left it on top of an air-con unit outside the pub we all went to.  WHY?  Of course they hadn’t a clue it was of such importance, they simply made an error in choice of utensil.  When I use it I like to remember the delicious eggs we had for breakfast when staying with Gran and Grandpa,  after our Grape Nuts – who remembers those?

Pottery fish spoon rest

I can remember buying this with a dear friend in a kitchen and home shop called Studio 1 in Edinburgh.  We bought one each (to use as ashtrays I think) and it has now, for almost 20 years, through thick and thin in nine flats and houses been beside my cooker to catch those messy bits off the spoon.

Driftwood duck (no photo as it’s packed)

An gorgeous piece of driftwood damaged by fire at one end but with such a distinctive ‘face’.   William found it at Chinamans Beach last year and it now takes pride of place above a mantelpiece.  Should I have it treated in case of international travel?  Though if I don’t perhaps we might get a slot on Border Security or some such excitement?

Myriad beautiful paintings and drawing by the boys

Is it only me who keeps so many?  The recycled ‘craft’ I can live without but watching their imaginations come to life on paper I just love.  I have framed a couple and I have to say having them on our walls makes me ten times as happy as some commercially produced picture would.  One day I’ll put together a gallery of happiness!

I truly understand now why moving house is said to be one of the most stressful events in life.  Although I have three friends who have all moved (one twice in a matter of months) recently and outwardly they appeared quite normal throughout the process, far from the deranged individual I feel like I’ve become, maniacally packing yet seeming to still be in the middle of a sea of flotsam.  I’d just like to acknowledge my Mum here too who, last year, moved herself and my Dad to a cottage up the back road (where they lived when first married) after 35 years in the farmhouse.  That is seven times as long as we’ve been here.  I think 7 times the stuff would just about finish me.  Hats off Mum!

That’s it, I’ve have had my little writing fix, back to the boxes.