It’s all set! Yesterday we signed for the new house (more on the house later, I promise). On the 26th October we will, somehow, be condensing and cramming all our belongings into a tiny place that has only one bedroom, a bathroom and a kitchenette/front room. God knows how we are going to fit it all in. D’s garage is full of boxes of tools, loose wires, camping gear, 6 tents (don’t ask) and all other such normal stuff that fills the average households’ space that a car never gets to see (ok, maybe 6 tents isn’t normal). Currently I have 2 chests of drawers full of clothes along with a wardrobe and an extra rail on the landing. The new house will only fit one wardrobe so I have started to PANIC.
Although panicking, I do see this is an opportunity to assess my possessions and decide what can me compromised. Countless times I have had a clearout of cloths which has produced just a small bag of odd socks, laddered tights and discoloured underwear. Why is it so hard to part with ‘things’? It’s a battle of logic over sentimentality which drives feelings of guilt. That top that my aunty bought me for my birthday two year, no three years, ago. The only top that is still folded at the bottom of the drawer. After each clearout it has been neatly put back but never actually worn. I won’t throw it away because I feel guilty. She spent money on it, she took the time to wrap it up, and she probably imaged how happy I would be wearing it. These thoughts go through my mind and I just can’t face putting it in the charity bag. So back in the drawer it goes. And it doesn’t stop there. I have boxes of the stuff. Guilt boxes. Right now they are stored in the loft of my parent’s house and now I have to sort these too, because they want them gone. I can’t even remember half the stuff they contain. One item I can recall is a Westlife address book that my Grandma bought me for Christmas at the age of 15. I despised Westlife, (I still do) they weren’t cool, yet my good acting skills showed Grandma how happy I was with my gift. For a year it sat in my bedside cabinet (along with other ‘stuff’) and then Grandma died. Well I certainly couldn’t get rid of it now, could I? It was one of the last gifts she bought me and one that I had kept for a year and now she was gone. In to said box it went and there it has been ever since.
So, as I write this, sat on the picnic bench in my parent’s garden I can sense those boxes sat in the loft just meters away from me. I should be sorting them now but I’m putting it off. Maybe they can stay there a bit longer, just another year. Doubt that. Damn, now I’m feeling the guilt. I could just use the Westlife address book I suppose. But I don’t need it! I have modern technology; an iPhone to do that. It won’t even fit in my handbag. FFS.
Ps. Please reassure me it isn’t just me who has guilt boxes….please!