It’s a bad sign of the times when you turn on Life of Grime to make yourself feel better about your own house. I know it’s not that bad but it is something I worry about.
I’m the daughter of absolute hoarders and have inherited a bit of that thriftiness. I’m married to a man who when I met him saw nothing odd in the fact that his flat was a maze of floor to ceiling piles of magazines and newspapers from the previous few years. I mean he could put his hand on that interesting article he’d read last spring pretty easily. I’m not saying there wasn’t a system to his book, cd and media source storage just that it was a CRAZY one. Bizarrely he was like Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo in all other respects. When he asked on my first foray into his home to eat a takeaway after our regular friendly cinema trips whether I’d like a spoon or a fork I didn’t realise he meant THE spoon or THE fork.
You can see from this I need to be on my guard against Mr Trebus style behavior. Also I know how my old house looked when I finally spiralled down to the bottom of the mental barrel. I’d set up many elaborate and terrifying traps around the place and littered the floor with old rotting food. When I packed up my belongings to store at my parents after my ex and I finally sold the place I was in a still fragile place and when I unpacked after moving into a new flat after a hard eighteen months concentrated work on my psyche I was alarmed to see what I’d packed. A pretty bad example was a collection of desiccated wasp and fly corpses each in a painstaking origami twist of newspaper packed into a jiffy bag then into a cardboard box. Like a russian doll of inexplicable, unremembered madness.
The whole point of being irrational is that you don’t notice you are – you think it’s perfectly reasonable and, in fact, sensible to take care of the dead insectware. I spend too much time looking anxiously over my shoulder in case it’s crept up on me. It hasn’t yet,(other people assure me…) time has ticked away over a decade and that’s even featured two brutal deluges of post natal sadness.
Still I worry.
BT’s today include feeling pretty sure that my friends would let me know damn quickly if it had got that bad.
Watching my outrageous daughter withhold her kisses like a professional coquette.
I was reminiscing about it a couple of weeks ago, saying how much Zeph would like to play with it. It came for christmas when I was younger than him now and I can still remember how much I loved it, the packaging and the marbles. She called round tonight and produced it from her big hessian bag, a la Marry Poppins. Vaguely she says she had it tucked away. Withhold all my scorn for hoarding – I am ludicrously happy to have this again and the chance to share it with Z.