Having completed the last assignment of the penultimate module for the degree I hope to complete with the Open University in 2016, I set myself the task of clearing clutter. It’s a habit instilled into my psyche by my clear-the-clutter-at all costs mother who refused to allow me to keep any of my childhood toys or books. ‘You’re too old for all that now; time to give it to someone else.’
So out went the dolls and my beautiful doll’s pram that was so exactly like those advertised in glossy magazines, together with the kitchen dresser and doll’s house my father had made with such careful precision; the latter even had room-lights that could be switched on and off. The miniature dresser had tiny dishes displayed on its shelves. I still remember my father helping me cook soup in a minute saucepan with a diced potato which he allowed me to cut up while he carefully supervised, then we added a final crumbled stock cube. Being an only child could be lonely.
So, back to the clutter-clearing session and the unearthing of letters I meant to answer, but never had the time. Smitten by conscience, I start reading and then decided it was time to get back to my blog. So here we are. Meanwhile, the rain swashes and gluggles down the windows of my roof-top den while the wind rattles the slate tiles overhead like so many bones washed up on the estuary lying in the valley below the fields that are my horizon. The trees and shrubs are dancing like so many whirling banshees but their gyrations are mesmerising.
In a little while, I’ll read a few more letters; even answer some, and give old friends a nod or a prod on Facebook to say, ‘Hey, how are you? I’m still here and life feels good.’