Of Mice and Mud.

2018 EDIT: Posting this in the height of summer (and what a summer - endless sunshine, World Cup mania) seems a little odd, but if I don't keep churning out my old material I'll never get to the new stuff (and I'm still procrastinating over writing anything new...)

EIGHTH BLOG 12/12/13

“‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house,

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.”

OK, so it’s NOT quite the night before Christmas, but we had to buy some mouse poison this week, after signs of a little ‘rodent visitation’ of our own in the container where most of our belongings are residing.

Well, when I say ‘signs’, The Other Half opened the door and Mr Michael Mouse sat staring at her as bold as brass. This, accompanying the recent change in weather (occasional torrential rain) which has turned the field into a quagmire, has somewhat dampened my spirits, both literally and figuratively. So, as a necessary distraction, I turned my attention closer to home ...

It would appear that my entire family has a problem with hoarding things. Things that might be useful ‘one day’, e.g. generic golf clubs, a game of Cluedo with most of the pieces missing, clothing that’s twenty-five years old, curtains that are thirty-five years old, old computer speakers, duvets, bed linen - basically ‘things’ that have all been replaced long ago with newer versions, but the old things have never been evicted and are still taking up valuable space.

My brother has a house FULL of stuff that he can’t bear to be parted from, and yet has no time to even look at, especially now he has newborn twin boys. He has three, count ‘em, THREE snooker tables - none of which are in use. He also has most of his university lecture notes and it’s been more than a few years since he was there. My mother has a similar amount of redundant items and has admitted that she’s happy for me to help her to start getting rid of them, either at car boot sales (see my last post), or on eBay (there are a few choice items and plenty of 99p ones), or to the tip - but I think it’ll take a while. Saying that, I have just spent an afternoon with her going through a spare room full of things and have filled my car until it’s overflowing with contributions for the local tip, recycling plant, and charity shops.

I discovered my father’s judo suit (probably worn once, but made by Kodokan from Japan in the seventies - so that’s going on eBay), threw out broken old suitcases, emptied cardboard boxes, and pulled out an old hand-tufted rug with browns, oranges, and yellows - also very seventies, but which tugs at my heartstrings with memories of playing with toy cars in amongst its strands once you made it into a little hairy ‘mountain’, so guess what? That’s right, I’ve put it aside for my own memento of the past. (Actually, Charity the Otterhound thinks it makes a nice new bed.)

We found paperwork going back to 1991 and earlier (to be burnt). We emptied ancient lever-arch files. Unearthed old photographs of my mother, father, and me together in fancy dress and accompanied by horses (Ma and Pa as Tudor wench and Henry VIII respectively, drawn in a trap by Beauty, our Welsh cob, me as a servant girl on my little Exmoor pony, Perrywinkle.) Divorce papers; brewery invoices from when my parents ran two public houses (pubs, to you and me); my grandfather’s funeral notice in the local paper; Mum’s old physiotherapy magazines; basically the same sorts of paper detritus that I’ve acquired and built up around my own adult life (neatly filed amongst my own possessions and not ready for giving up yet), and whilst Mum’s papers are obviously inextricably linked with my existence, they haven’t been looked at for decades - so out they have finally gone.

Why do some of us hold onto things for longer than others? Is it over-sentimentality? A clinging to the past? Ego? A desire and need for personal archiving? I still have over twenty years worth of ‘special’ birthday and Christmas cards, and during the process of packing before our move to Devon, even though I was exhorted to ‘get rid’ by many of my friends via Facebook, whilst I culled some, I still held onto eighty percent of them (the cards, not my friends). I rarely look at them; they take up space; in time, I’m sure mice will probably nibble on them, and yet I can’t quite bear to throw them away. Some of my friends seemed pretty ruthless, ‘I don’t hold onto anything like that, what’s the point of keeping them?’, whilst others stood shoulder to shoulder with me, yet they dared me to brave throwing them all away - ‘If you do it, then I will too.’ I spent several hours deliberating over them, - hours that I won’t get back - but what I did get out of the experience (and which I always do on the occasions that I do go through those ‘memory boxes’) was smiling at the sight of my friends’ names, their warm comments, and coming across my grandmother’s handwriting again.

My grandmother, Jo-Jo, was fortunate in that she never had to work a day in her life. My grandfather ran a hosiery factory in Leicestershire - Rothley to be precise, near, would you believe it, a place called Mountsorrel. The factory made ladies stockings, and then fine woven socks for men, and they were cleverly (I like to think) one of the first factories to adapt their machines to weave fine-knit jumpers. Due to this clever innovation, my grandparents always had beautiful homes, plus gardeners and housekeepers. Jo-Jo’s houses were always immaculate, with carefully picked, tasteful ornaments decorating the antique occasional tables, and everything had its place.

In contrast, our homes were always busy, working, and cluttered. For the twelve years that we occupied the flats above the two pubs, my poor mother was always juggling at least eight balls at a time, as well as spinning several plates on poles, so tidying up was the last thing on her mind (or even possible with the given hours in a day). I was always ‘Mummy’s little helper’ and tried to help as best I could, whilst my brother was the academic, living in amongst dirty plates, cups and underpants. My Mum laughs at the memory of my teenage frustration at the chaos and mess of our home when I once said ‘When I have my own place, I’m going to live a minimalist life!’ I’ve not achieved this state yet, but it is still my ambition.

We currently have a container full of things that I can’t wait to get rid of in similar ways to those detailed much earlier above, and this might be our only income for a while, because I can barely see the wood for the trees (or the carpet for the mess). I need to achieve some clarity before being able to properly knuckle down and concentrate on my new business. It’s taking me longer to even be able to write this blog, simply due to the fact that I’m finding it hard to get some head space in amongst the jumble of my life.

The mud, mice, and mayhem in my life are currently lowering my mood, but when I look beyond the end of my nose and take note of the serious things going on in the world it’s enough to make me kick myself up the arse and remember that I’m on the verge of a crazy adventure and to truly count my blessings. I’m sorry if that sounds a little twee, but when I’m wondering how I ever managed to fit work into a day and then remember how many people do, I realise how lucky I am. The holiday continues for now but come January, it’ll be full steam ahead.

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

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