I have railed against materialism on this blog. I have
satirised consumerism, I've written poems and performed comedy sketches on
these topics. Therefore, it is with a blush and a huge guilt complex that I
reflect on the last three days.
I was packing to move house.
A few months ago when the idea of a move took shape and then
solidified, I naturally felt an increase in my ongoing urge to clear out. My
children learnt a long time ago that if something hadn't been used or worn or given
a glance in – say – six months, the chances were, it would find its way into
the bin or recycle bag unless they nailed it to the floor.
It became a comfortable habit of mine not to purchase a
significant item of clothing (albeit from the charity shop) without a quick pre-chuck-out.
On occasion I have had to be careful not to re-purchase something I’d
previously donated. Sometimes when a thing looked familiar – instead of my brain
saying ‘you feel warmly towards that thing because you used to wear it’ my grey
matter sends the ‘you feel warmly towards that thing because you want to buy
it’ message instead.
Fortunately for my bank balance I have always viewed
shopping as a task rather than a form of entertainment. Generally, being
surrounded by STUFF drags me down.
There are no gadgets in my kitchen other than those that
seem, even to me, to be essential. No microwave, no dishwasher, no George
Forman grill (!) Anyway you get the picture.
But once I started to pack, the sheer amount of stuff, the
number of things, the crap, overwhelmed me.
I began to suspect I may have cut it fine in terms of time
allowed. But – I told myself – you've been handing over little parcels and
boxes and bags of things to charity shops for a while. When my Edinburgh
conveyancer finally got his finger out and we confirmed the date (and before it
turned out he hadn't done something vital he should have done and I thought the
whole thing would be off) I upped the clearing-out considerably. I decided to be
ruthless, even with my books and they have been thinned out on a regular basis
because they breed when I am not looking.
Items I’d hmm’d and ha’d about were cast aside without a
second thought or regret. Things I really thought I could not live without were
revealed as an obvious waste of space.
Lord, after a day and a half of packing, the task still
seemed daunting. Even taking into consideration that some of the stuff belongs
to the two daughters who have not lived at home year, and a lot more belongs
to the one that does - there still seemed to be too much.
Maybe my aversion to 'things' is connected to upbringing. My grandmother is a psychotic shopper
and my mum loves to get-a-gadget. I've been amazed at just how many gadgets
there are for things you never knew you needed a gadget for…
My friends may chortle as they already think my sensitivity
to clutter is verging on abnormal but there is going to be a whole new level of
clear as I go from small house to even smaller flat.
Putting all that to one side – and suspecting that there may
be more chucking out when the boxes are opened (which seems kind of mad) I
think I am going to have a new rule. If I look around me and feel that it would take my children
more than a few hours to clear up after me when I die – I’ve got too much stuff.
On a massive positive note – I am really excited to now be a
resident of Edinburgh.
This week’s recommended blog from the archive is;
Blog 23. What
is Love! (philosophy of Wil-e-coyote)