Cleaning out the barn of the detritus of the past ten years of our lives has been like a visit to the psychotherapist in that you have to go places you would rather not ever go again.
As you start to delve into musty old boxes covered in grimy layers of dust which you can’t help sneezing up and making your nose twitch you are confronted by memories, good and bad and/or embarrassing.
I cringe at the evidence of my poor taste and wonder that I ever wasted so much money on so much tat. Although the boxes and bags were put in the barn nigh on ten years ago the stuff that is racked there, goes back way longer. I mean I even have my toys dumped here; not that I mind, as I have given them to the boys for what is a toy if it is not played with?
I remember packing them away in 1981 before we embarked on our first major overseas posting in a decade. Each one was lovingly wrapped and sadly bade farewell by name. I was crying and then I was furious because my sister and her friend, five years younger than me, had heard me and were sniggering on the other side of the door. Hell hath no fury like a 15 year old teenager caught out and embarrassed. I think my sister was forcibly told to erase the whole episode from her mind forever. Since she has never mentioned it I can only presume she took my advice.
So now the toys are out again and I am afraid I don’t remember all their names and the memories are both bitter sweet and welcome.
Not so the memories engendered by my dubious taste in jumpers, purple plastic bead necklaces and faux suede pussy pelmets. God I must have looked a sight but I bet I thought I was the bee’s knees….