It's not easy being a magpie. Drawn inexplicably to that shiny pointless bauble that you must rescue.
Packing up the house ready to move out at the end of this week has been a herculean effort. There have been occasional moments of joy on discovering long-lost treasures up in the loft, but for the most part it has been stressful, exhausting and traumatic
You see, I love things. I surround myself with things. Quite how I'm going to cope with them not around me, heaven only knows.
Everything (well almost) is packed in brown cardboard boxes and deposited in the storage unit. So far we have filled 90 boxes and got through 10 rolls of brown tape. We haven't even started on the furniture yet.
Luckily the old man is one of those guys who gets obsessive about the correct way to load the groceries in shopping bags. Imagine his joy at stacking and re-stacking box upon box in a 150 square foot metal room. He was in heaven.
I on the other hand delayed visiting the unit. I knew it would distress me. Ever since the story of the sicko who kept his murder victim in the Big Yellow, those places have given me the willies. I have much the same feelings on self storage units as I do about Magic Trees after watching Se7en. Loading up our nth box, I stupidly made a crack about body parts. Last night I watched The Lovely Bones on telly and wished I hadn't.
The amount of stuff we have is unbelievable. You see, I'm a hoarder, not a chucker. Most normal people will have one umbrella. I have 15. I also have 4 pairs of wellies and Ruby is continuing the family tradition with her 3 pairs.
Before you freak and think this is my second-hand shopping which has caused this, don't worry. It's not. It extends to every area of my life and home. Packing up the kitchen I discovered 5 bags of flour - all open all 'in use'. We always have at least 2 tubes of toothpaste on the go - hell we generally have 2 loo rolls on the go.
Once in a while I fantasise about living in a slick Barratt home with built-in everything and a capsule wardrobe to match. A life in which Sundays would be spent pruning the hedge and washing the car - not hurtling round car boot sales.
It's not me though. Can you seriously imagine me hosting #minimalistmonday? No, it ain't never gonna happen.
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