Parenting. Such a MAGICAL experience. Along with all the fear, desperation, exhaustion, irritation, frustration and total absolute dicking bollocks of parenting, comes guilt. GUILT. I feel it ALL THE COCKING TIME. I can’t escape it. I’m afraid to say, people, that when you spawn a tiny person you instantly and violently sign up for a LIFETIME of this emotional headfucking stuff. It’s overwhelming, and gives me heartburn. Yeesh.
I feel guilty…
that I don’t do enough ‘educational’ stuff with Moo
that I don’t spend enough time outdoors with Moo
that I let her watch too much TV
that I spend too much time on Twitter while she watches TV
that I don’t feed her enough food
that she eats too much junk food
that she doesn’t socialise with other children enough
that I don’t socialise with other parents enough
that sometimes I just want a break from the parenting stuff
that I should be looking for work even though it wouldn’t mean I was any better off right now
that I should be writing a novel/a screenplay/a play instead of blogging
that I should eat more healthily
that I should be a better sister/daughter/friend
that all this internal gibbering makes me a bad mother
that I’m not more proactive about a LOT of things
that I shout at Moo when I really don’t mean to
that sometimes I only really want some time on my own
that I’ve just spent fifteen quid in the supermarket on crap when I could budget properly and save cash
that I resent a lot of people who have what I don’t have even though I know that’s a horrid thing to do
that I know it could be a lot worse for me and I hate moaning
that I feel guilty about most of this stuff when I should just QUIT IT, FUCKSAKE – and man up…
You see? It’s a convoluted nightmare of epic proportions. And I’m only being a tiny bit dramatic there. Which I feel guilty about. Obvs.
What do you feel guilty about?
So, Eastenders, what a load of lovable tripe you are, eh? A joyous romp through all the darkness a world can provide, and I’m not just talking about Ian and Denise getting it on. Eeeewwwwww, to the power of infinity. C’mon, Denise. Ian Beale. Seriously. IAN BEALE. Just, no. ANYWAY. Funnily enough, all the stabbings, wailings, explosions, incest, murders, adultery, abandonment, and erm, the extortionate price of a knickerbocker glory in the caff, gets me PROPER DOWN, and I stop watching for a bit, until something major happens, and then I get sucked back in, cos I want to know who shot/stabbed/buggered/defenestrated Phil Mitchell. As ANYONE would. Natch.
Regular viewers will be aware of the current storyline involving Lola, the ‘scrappy smart-mouthed teen with too much eye make-up’, and her baby, ‘the cute baby’. If you’re NOT aware, here is a quick precis: the baby was taken off Lola by social services cos she’s a teenager, and therefore a crap mother, and placed in the care of Phil Mitchell, WHO IS A THUG AND A CRIMINAL AND A FORMER DRUG ADDICT AND LOOKS LIKE A BIG RED ANGRY THUMB, and therefore OBVIOUSLY better suited to caring for a baby. Nonsense. Utter nonsense. Nevertheless, ANYTHING involving small babies in peril makes me hysterically weepy, so I’ve been soppily sniffing in front of the TV four nights a week for gawd knows how long as Lola battles to be reunited with her daughter. YES I KNOW. I am a dumbass. Bite me.
Then last night, a Massive Plot Device happened, and so flaringly obvious it was that it might as well have come with a klaxon and a formal announcement by the BBC that ‘Look here, one of them important Massive Plot Devices is about to happen, pay attention now, you plebs’ before glibly carrying on with the programme. Basically, the baby was HOT and ILL and NO ONE knew what to do, apart from Lola, who spent a bit of time explaining to her hapless male relatives that ‘I’m ‘er muvver, I just KNOW sommat’s WRONG wiv ‘er!’ before calling NHS Direct and getting a response within 30 seconds, which is so far removed from real life it makes the rest of Eastenders look like a hard-hitting documentary. The baby was rushed to hospital while the entire population of the Square looked on, and then there was a party at the B&B but that’s a different plot and not as GOOD.
The baby was fine, btw. Gastroenteritis. But fine. Phew. You can stop fretting now.
The moral of the Massive Plot Device is, that Lola is a MUVVER and just KNOWS when something is seriously wrong with her child, unlike Phil, who is not the baby’s muvver, and spent most of the episode saying ‘she’s only a bit hot innit’. Lola has a parenting instinct and she’s not afraid to use it, which is handy as I’m pretty sure social services will now grandly rethink their previous decisions and hand the baby back to Lola with a quick flick of the Vs to Phil. Plot device DONE.
My point is (if you’re still reading, WELL DONE and THANK YOU) that there’s a lot to be said for instinct. After all, our ancient cave-dwelling ancestors relied on it a lot, and it served them well, seeing as they evolved into medieval people, and then, erm, Victorian people (history not my strong point. Nor evolution). Sometimes everything else gets in the way, and we end up struggling between what our heads and hearts are clamouring to inform us, when really, we need to listen to our gut, which has been right all along, typically.
Lola’s Massive Plot Device (which would be an AWESOME band name) got me thinking about how I’ve ignored my instinct lately. How I’ve let Other Things get in the way. How, when I’m typically an instinctive person, I’ve been dismissing it and letting Bastard Circumstance rule my decisions. At the risk of sounding WAY MORE CRYPTIC than I want to, I’m therefore going to give Instinct another go. And trust it.
My instinct right now is telling me I shouldn’t write about Eastenders ever again. Huh.
How much do you rely on instinct? Is it merely a tool in our parenting arsenal? Or is it essential in all walks of life?
And Ian and Denise, that’s just wrong, yeah? He is totes punching above his weight. Totes.
Funny how there’s no limit to a sadness. How you can be smiling, and calm, and about your day like no one’s business, when all of a sudden, there’s your sadness, sitting in your neck like a nausea. This, my sadness, makes me feel somehow more than completely sad. A way of life. An enveloping fog. Like I’m being cuddled by a vapour which pricks my eyes. Will I ever not be sad? I don’t know. Too many sad things have happened lately, I suspect I’m primed for sadness now.
Anger thrusts and then dissipates. Jealousy itches, and is soothed away. Anxiety comes and goes, blue and heady. Denial sneaks a cheeky grin your way. Frustration prickles. Bravado barks the loudest, oh, it covers up a multitude of less forceful feelings, but it has no stamina, no sticking power. I admit, that public bluster is fun, I do it cos leaves me pink-cheeked and rocking with laughter, but too soon, it’s away.
Faithful sadness. Curled up on my chest, its tail around my throat.
No limit to a sadness.
I am rrrrrrrrubbish at maths. Me and numbers, we don’t get along. They push all up in my face and make me itch and CONFUSE me with their fiddly-diddly numbering and multiplications and fancy-shmancy divisionals. Bleargh. Simply, I don’t do maths. Nope. This is why CALCULATORS were born, innit? And occasionally, if I need to do some urgent mathematicals, I just ask. I ask for help. I have no qualms about admitting I don’t do maths. ‘I can do WORDS,’ I intone, ‘words are MUCH FRIENDLIER and more comfortable and don’t SPIKE me so much.’ And then I get loads of sympathy and people absolutely do my maths for me. Hoopla!
See, no trouble asking for help with maths. None at all. I’ll do it right now – HELP ME HEEEEEELP MEEEEEE WITH THE EVIL SOUL-DESTROYING MATHS! Tada! Nice and clear intent, simple message, good emphasis. You got it, yeah?
Good. Go me!
So why can’t I do it for other areas of my life?
Why can’t I say to someone, anyone, ‘Help, I need help, I’m struggling, I feel sad and alone, I’m so bored and freaking out, please help me, please just talk to me, or check I’m OK, please’?
And the STUPID THING IS, I deleted that sentence and rewrote it a few times to make it sound less needy. Fucksake.
I’m an idiot, essentially. I have excellent friends and a totes shawesomeballs family. They rock. I luff them lots. I KNOW I can rely on them for all the support, love, advice, and company I may need. I know this, and I’ve received a lot of that good stuff in the past. I just can’t ASK for it. I hate bothering people. I worry that they’ll feel obliged to help me, while muttering under their breath about how self-involved I am, and then I worry that they think I don’t appreciate them enough, when I do, I really absolutely totally do, and I am so grateful to everyone who ever helps me, ever. I feel, sometimes, like I have to persevere, and endure, because that’s what life is, and I should just quit moaning, get on and do it.
I’m a single mum. I do the parenting thing, on my own, for the best part of the week. It’s difficult and tiring and, haha, sometimes, almost as bad as doing maths. The relentlessness of playgroups, toddler groups, the supermarket, tidying up felt-tip fucking pens, wiping clean a shit-encrusted arse, feeding, bath time, pushing the buggy, hoovering up bits of crushed chalk, finding stickers in my knickers, having Cbeebies on for what feels like forever, finding fridge magnets in my bed, putting away, washing, hoovering, wiping, tidying, carrying, pushing, fucking-shitting-hula-hooping, why the fuck did I buy her a hula hoop… yeah. It’s full on. Sure, it’s not dodging bullets or fighting off sea monsters, but y’know.
The rewards are obvious. I have a beautiful, funny, gregarious daughter. I would do all the above, and more, and even more, and backwards, blindfolded, if it meant she was happy and healthy and having fun. Just sometimes, y’know, I need to acknowledge that it’s HARD on my own.
Despite me writing all this, I am not likely ever to admit to needing help. And I’d like to reiterate, I am NOT asking for help right now. The last few days I’ve needed to, badly, but I made it through. I’ve been busy, kept occupied, distracted my stupid brain and had a fucking good cry when I’ve needed to. I’ve set myself some personal goals. I’ve listened to the advice of some sage and learned people. I’ve managed to keep on top of the housework WHICH IS A FUCKING MIRACLE. See? Me no need help. Unless it’s for maths. Can anyone do my maths?
What I’m TRYING to say, in a roundabout-ish sorta way, is, don’t be a dumbarse like me. If you think you need help, ASK for some. There’s no shame in asking. Ever. If you have people around you who care, then ask them for help. It could be all they need to do is listen as you admit to feeling scared, or sad, or lonely. I told someone today that I felt like shite and, funnily enough, felt better for it. Once the words had crept past my lips it was like I’d expelled them. Magic. Sure, it doesn’t solve everything but at least it’s not bottled up inside me where the most damage is done. Admission counts. Fo sho.
Please do my maths.
Do you find it difficult asking for help? What stops you? What would you never ask for help with?
Can’t think of the last time I was on it. And in this instance, I mean ON IT LIKE A CAR BONNET. A phrase which conjures up colourful images of doing THINGS on car bonnets. But hang on a mother-picking minute – when was the last time I was ON a car bonnet? Have I EVER been on a car bonnet? And, are you actually ALLOWED on car bonnets? Like, recreationally? Or is it something attempted under the cover of darkness and incognito? In which case, that means there are A LOT of people currently bandying around the phrase ‘Yeah! I am on it like a car bonnet!’ who have NO INTENTION of getting on a car bonnet and doing the thing they are supposed to be doing, for fear of being caught and detained and possibly made to apologise to the owner of the car bonnet for violating such a personal place. How fucking disingenuous! Innit.
So here I am, openly admitting that, yeah, I am not on it. Not even near a car bonnet right now. There’s one over there *points out of the window* but it looks a bit damp. So I’m not getting on it. I wish I was on it. Not that car bonnet, not literally, just… oh YOU KNOW. Figuratively on it. Just for once I’d like to feel capable, organised, and IN CONTROL. How does that happen? Is there a button I press? Which bastard hid my button? Bastards.
On the surface, I have fuck all to complain about. There are worse things happening in the world and I am uber-grateful none of them are happening to me. But I’m an introspective and overthinking kind of gal so these are my demons, y’see. Haunting me. Waking me in the night and making me think the awful things about myself that, ordinarily, I can subdue. I convince myself that I’m a horrid, mean little person, undeserving of love and affection. I tell myself that Moo would be better off without me, as I am pretty sure I’m not doing this parenting stuff properly. I think, deep down, that all the evil, dark, gluey stuff that I want no one to know about me just surfaces and spills from my orifices and then everyone will see me for who I really am, or think I’m someone that I really really hope I’m not. And, turns out, I’m obsessed. Obsessed with MYSELF. Which is STUPID, as this post is all about me, so I’m kind of perpetuating the obsession, and yeah, I kind of hate myself for it. Sucks, huh?
We all have off days. Some days, we are so off, we end up standing over there, by ourselves, looking maudlin and picking the skin from our lips. Oh, just me? Shit. Anyway, what I’m saying is, I know this cycle of spurious self-flagellation will peter out eventually (hopefully, desperately) soon. I know that at some point, I will wake up and think ‘Yeah! I am ON IT like a MOTHERFUCKING CAR BONNET’ and do a little victory dance, in my pants, by the side of the bed, like people who are winning at life do. That’s worth waiting for, so I believe. And in the meantime, I’m trying not to beat myself up and vomit self-pity everywhere. Oh, what? I already did? Oops.
Having a blog gives a voice to these feelings. No one is obliged to reply or comment. I’m not fishing for reassurance. This is CATHARTIC. It’s like, I feel BAD, I write it all down, feel a bit silly, then feel better and get on with my day. You may recognise yourself in my words, or you might be thinking, ‘Shut your whining, bitch, and blog about periods or muff or something’. Whatevs. There’s space here for thoughts and I just filled it, innit. If you’re brave enough, you can be one of those people who give me a virtual slap and yell at me to pull myself together. Be brave, mind. Very brave.
So, on with my day. I’ve got a wild toddler to corral, a bodacious play to perform in, and a sweaty pair of fishnets to slip into.
How do you stay on it? Literally? No, ha ha, I mean figuratively. No, I do mean literally. Maybe.
That was my fierce roar. Geddit? See, I can be fierce. I can do TIGER EYES. *does tiger eyes* No, I am not merely squinting a bit. These are the EYES of a FIERCE TIGER. Be scared! Go on! RAAAAAR!
OK I’m kidding. I’m not really fierce. I got called fierce today, which was nice, but made me snorty laugh a bit, not in a derisory way, but just cos I don’t believe I am fierce, so when I get called it, I am all disbelieving, innit.
Someone I know on Twitter wanted some advice regarding their relationship break-up and while I couldn’t really offer any practical hints and tips in regard to their specific situation, I made sure to offer support and to lend an ear should they need one. They mentioned that they knew I was going through something similar myself from reading my blog, and wished they could be ‘as fierce’ as me. See? Fierce. Raaaaar. OK I will stop doing tiger eyes now. I can’t really see properly when I do that anyway.
Fierce. There’s nowt fierce about my separation. Sad, frustrating, heart-wrenching, lonely, bitter, sometimes bearable, agonising, shit and, erm, sad are terms I’d use. I have not felt fierce about it at all. I’m not sure when fierce became an acceptable vernacular for something positive (I blame Tyra Banks and her legions of squinty-eyed models) either. To my mind, fierce infers a fighting spirit, someone with a bit of spunky courage, sharp nails and a mane of hair, a loud roar and battle-ready. Is that me? I dunno. Maybe I should invoke some ferocity. Sounds fun. I can be fierce! I’ve got the eyes for it. And nails. I have sharp nails. RAAAAAAR *cough* *sucks on a throat sweet*
Some people NEED to be fierce during their separation. Sometimes it’s called for. Whether it’s cos the ex is being a mook or cos you need to stand up for what you’re entitled to, a bit of ferocity and, um, spunk can go a long way. Do it. Go for it. Be fierce. It’s better than being walked over, surely? I’m fortunate in that my ex and I get on, we communicate, and we can – I hope – one day move into an easy friendship; and we both adore The Moo, so y’know, that makes life a bit calmer. Not everyone has that luck of the draw. But I think if I had to, well… I’d be fierce. With knobs on.
I think what I’m trying to say (bear with me, caller) is that if you can see ferocity in what I do and it helps you, then GOOD. Makes all this blogging shizzle worthwhile. I like to think that y’all prefer me fierce to maudlin, innit.
*squints again* RAAAAAAA – *cough* Must stop doing that.
Can you be fierce? How d’you turn on the ferocity?
Once upon a time, there was a young girl whose grandmother lived in a well.
She had no idea why her grandmother lived in a well. The old lady was just down there. Every day, the young girl’s mother took the old lady some food and lowered it down to her in the well. The old lady ate anything. Bread, chicken, cheese, potatoes. Whatever. The bucket went down full of delicious food, and came back up empty. Afterwards, the old lady always called out an echoing greeting to the young girl’s mother.
This went on for years.
Then one day, when the young girl had grown into a young woman, and gone off and got herself an education, and a husband, and two children, and a nice house in the suburbs not too far from the well wherein her grandmother resided, her mother died.
This was a bit shit. The young woman was obviously very sad about her mother dying. But she was also annoyed. Her mother’s will had quite clearly stated that it had befallen to her, the only child, to continue feeding the old lady in the well. The young woman was not altogether pleased about this. It seemed vaguely ridiculous. Yet she had loved her mother dearly, so she shrugged her shoulders and begrudgingly took on the burden of feeding her grandmother in the well.
The first time she took a basket of food there, she peered in, and tried to discern anything within the murky depths. She thought she could see a faint reflection of the blue sky, far below. ‘Hello?’ she called, tentatively. She had not been near the well in years.
‘Who the fuck is that?’ came a croaky voice from down the bottom of the well.
‘Uh, it’s your granddaughter?’ the young woman replied. ‘I’ve got you some food!’
‘Fucking send it down then,’ the old lady yelled hoarsely, ‘I’m fucking starving!’
‘Yes, all right,’ said the young woman, a bit peeved. ‘Hang on Grandma.’ And she carefully lowered the bucket into the well, having placed some food she’d brought from home inside first. Then she waited until she could feel the bucket had been emptied, and pulled on the rope again, to bring the bucket back up. From down below, she could hear the sound of frantic chomping. ‘I hope, erm, I hope it’s OK?’ she called out to the old lady.
‘It tastes like SHIT,’ came the shrieked answer, ‘are you trying to fucking poison me?’
‘No, of course not, Grandma,’ said the young woman.
But the next time she brought food for her grandmother down the well, it did not go any better. The old lady still swore and claimed that the food was shit and poisonous. The young woman persevered. She cooked and baked and created marvellous culinary delights, determined to one day hear her grandmother proclaim it was all very delicious. This carried on for months. The young woman’s husband and children got a bit fed up. They were getting scraps to eat, while the old lady got all the good stuff, and wasn’t even grateful!
‘I don’t even believe you have a grandmother down a well,’ the husband said. ‘It’s faintly nonsensical.’
So the young woman invited her husband and children to come and see for themselves. They all turned up the next day. ‘That’s the well,’ said the young woman, pointing at the well. They all peered down into the well. ‘Who the FUCK are you, looking in my well?’ came a sudden and terrifying bellow from the depths. ‘And that’s my grandmother,’ said the young woman.
The husband cleared his throat and shouted down, ‘I’m your grandson-in-law, and these are your great-grandchildren.’
There was a silence.
Then the rope jerked violently. ‘Hey! I have great-grandchildren? I’m coming up!’ called out the old lady. ‘Send the bucket down! Pull me up! Hurry up, for fuck’s sake! It’s fucking wet down here!’
The young woman and her family immediately began to get the old lady out of the well. Luckily with all of them there, it was quite easy to haul the old lady up on the bucket. She emerged, dripping and shrunken, blinking in the daylight. She looked like a swollen, grey, wet blister, with straggling white hair. No one moved to hug her.
‘Hello, Grandma,’ said the young woman, shyly.
The old lady peered round. ‘You’re my granddaughter?’ she croaked. ‘Fuck me, you’re ugly. You didn’t get that nose from my side of the family, you pasty fat cow. And you’re the husband? I hoped for a better grandson-in-law. What are you, diseased? What’s wrong with your fucking hair? Did you make your clothes yourself? And these are your children. My great-grandchildren. Fucking hell. You both look like you’ve been vomited up. They should have left you on the church steps, sonny, you’re never going to amount to much. Fuck my life, this is the best I’ve got? I’ve been living down that fucking well for fucking YEARS and finally, when I decide that maybe, just maybe, life will be worth it if I come back out again, I end up confronted with these sorry pieces of fucking human flotsam -’
But the old lady could not finish her diatribe before the young woman, her own granddaughter, gave her a shove, and the old lady flailed backwards and tipped head first back down the well, hitting her cranium on the rocks and landing, unconscious, in the water at the bottom, where she drowned.
‘We don’t need her in our lives,’ said the young woman to her family. ‘Let’s go home.’
And they all walked away from the old lady in the well.
Back in the New Year, when the year was, erm, new, I wrote a post about New Year resolutions rather snappily titled Bring On 2012, Baby. Apart from the goddamnawful title (thank Jeezus I switched to simple one/two word titles) reading it back now makes me cringe a bit. Yeesh. It’s a bit beauty-pageant-queen wishlist. Y’know, world farking peace and all that balls.
Yah well my wishlist has changed, innit. Sure, I want the same things as I always did – good times for Moo, health, happiness and giggles along the way – but the specifics are different. Diamond shoes? It has well and truly been demonstrated that they DO NOT EXIST. Shit the bed! Can you believe it? I believed that it was possible to acquire shoes carved from a MASSIVE diamond. I was wrong. And the alternative? Mere spangles. Hey ho. No wonder my unicorn farking died.
So eight months-ish down the 2012 line and it’s all change again. I shall definitely remember this year as one of tempest and flux. Some folk thrive on change, others flounder and yearn for the comfort of a quiet life. I’m still trying to work out which one is me.
In the meantime, this is my new, improved, slightly more realistic wishlist. Peruse at your leisure.
jeans that fit in all the right places
to not have to pluck my eyebrows every day
to lick my Twitter friends in their faces for real
new bed sheets
to cultivate a non-fear of moths/wasps/spiders
more house plants
the new series of Doctor Who to be really good, please
to be better at maths
to lose weight
to finish writing more books
to be able to say ‘brewery’ without looking like I’m chewing on a slug
more knickerbocker glories in my life
to watch less shit TV
to climb a tree
balls of steel
a happy Christmas, seeing as my b’day was so shite
to take more photos
to reach the bottom of the washing basket
more rings for my fingers
to read more good fiction
world farking peace?
I could go on. Ramble through the entire section of my brain focused on heart’s desires. It would take all day.
What’s on your wishlist? I was going to say ‘keep it clean’ but knowing some of you lot, there are butt plugs in there somewhere.
Tomorrow is the 16th August, and it is my birthday. It is also Madonna’s birthday. She is exactly twenty years older than me. This is why I was convinced, when I was younger, that when – not if, but when – I met Madonna – y’know, jogging in Hyde Park or erm, shopping for conical bras innit – we would end up being BFFs, cos we shared a b’day. ‘Madonna! Hey,’ I’d coolly open with, ‘my birthday’s the same as yours. I love you. Let’s be mates?’ And her immaculateness would reply, ‘Yeah all right, Fran, you’re pretty farking awesome yerself, don’t cha know’ and then we’d make out while half-watching Desperately Seeking Susan over and over.
Sadly, I no longer adore Madonna. Soz, Madge, but you look like you’re made out of some weird shiny clay, and you seem, I dunno, just a bit, um, hard work. So I don’t really wanna be friends any more. But don’t sweat it, you’re still way richer than me.
Anyway, birthdays. That annual reminder of your approaching decrepitude and eventual mortality. Pardon me for not celebrating. Birthdays make me introspective rather than celebratory and it has been that way for a while, not just cos I’ve had a totes shiteballs year. I set myself high standards and if they’re not met I end up being quite hard on myself. You might have noticed that particular personality trait, innit.
Wonder if Madonna does that? Question her lot in life, I mean. Is she content with her big house, hunky younger man, African babies and the knowledge that quite a large percentage of the world’s population have seen her minge? Is that enough for her? She’s one of them folk who constantly strive to reinvent themselves, but I suspect it’s more a relentless promotional tool rather than a need to ‘find’ the ‘real’ ‘her’. Then again, who knows. She’s built a career on presenting us with a cavalcade of painted faces (and minge) and yet, d’you want to curl up with her on a sofa and share a tin of custard creams, drinking tea and bitching about that bastard Guy Ritchie? Nah. Not really. I’d rather do that with someone approachable and warm and fun.
Or maybe that’s the secret. That’s how you get through your days. Mould yourself a iridescent carapace to drape around your shoulders, and hang a KEEP OUT sign on your life. Practice holding everyone at arm’s length. Be brilliant, have moments of genius, and remain untouchable. Go jogging in Hyde Park with your minders and ignore the plebs who so desperately want to emulate you. Every now and again, get your tits out and have a radical haircut. Is that the formula? Fark me, now if only I could write good songs.
Oh who gives a crap about Madonna. She’s nowt to me now other than a dessicated, strangely muscled husk with an impressive back catalogue. Fond memories, maybe. I’m mooching about in my head cos tomoz I’ll be thirty farking four. That’s thirty farking four, people. Young to some, but old in my soul. I feel older than I should. This last year – the one since my last b’day – has aged me.
Madonna. Me. Who’s the best? Only kidding. What’s the secret to an enjoyable birthday? Lemme know below in your usual manner. Much love.
So as well as unfollowing a load of spare folk on Twitter, I’ve also been doing my bit for the environment by chucking out bagfuls of crap that I’ve been hoarding about the place for a while. ‘Mmm, so cathartic!’ I promise myself, as yet another black sack bounces down the stairs, on its way to the landfill site formerly known as outside-my-front-door. Black sacks of crap. How do I have SO MUCH crap? Where does it come from? I don’t remember acquiring it. That’s bad, right? Right. Hence my ongoing domestic streamlining. What I’m handily naming (rhyme alert) my innate ‘urge to purge’.
That’s a lot of FARKING CRAP.
This purge is continuous and lengthy. I see no end to it. I am responsible for 80% of the country’s rubbish at the moment. It is sitting in the bins outside my house. Well, actually, the bins aren’t outside my house, they’re up by the main road, and I can’t see them, which is excellent, cos then I can absolve myself of the terrible fact that I have filled all the bins, in the universe, ever. With my purged crap.
What I can, I donate to charity. The charity shops on Gloucester Rd are currently displaying many items from my past wardrobes within their windows. Just a bit spooky and weird-a-go-go, as I walk along and think, ‘Oh that’s a nice dress… and cardigan… and scarf… that I once wore. That exact outfit they have on the mannequin I wore to someone’s wedding two years ago. And looks better there. Damn.’
At least I haven’t bought anything back that I once owned. Yet.
But some things I can’t donate. The crap, mostly. So that goes in black sacks. Black sacks of doom.
I know why I’m doing this. Purging is good, yeah? In this way? New beginnings, letting go of the past, all that stuff. The ex and I will have to sort all the joint purchases soon. He’s moving away and making a new life for himself – no need to hang on to the past, is there. Some things are precious and won’t be purged, but other stuff? Stuff is only stuff. Crap. Things neither of us need, nor want. This current purge of mine is a kind of preparation, I think, for the next, significant, tandem purge. Good times.
In the meantime, anyone want some good quality crap? I have LOADS.
What do you hang on to, that you really should purge? Are you a hoarder, or do you find it easy to let go?