Too many tedious, rainy weekends: it's messing with my head. I’ve seen a few films. I’ve drunk too much coffee. I’ve caught up with all the news and read a few novels. But mostly I’ve cleaned. The linen cupboard is pristine. Even the pillow cases have been bleached. The car is spotless and the garage has been swept clean of mud and leaves. I've composted tired summer plants and potted some sweet scented winter bulbs.
With potting mix still under the finger nails, I looked around last Sunday evening and felt a tiny jolt of pride in my newly ordered, sparkling house. But anxious thoughts intruded. Perhaps the big wet had triggered an obsessive compulsive disorder. Perhaps nonstop cleaning indicated I needed to get out more, even if it meant getting soaked.
But as the rain kept falling, I kept cleaning. Next on my list was a soggy mess of snail-nibbled envelopes rescued from a waterlogged letterbox. I knew they contained only bills or form letters from desperate real estate agents. I was tempted to toss the lot into the recycling bin. There were no delicate, hand-written notes, their black ink bleeding over elegant parchment paper. In this unsentimental online world, we've been robbed of the joy of receiving hand written letters carefully crafted on pretty stationery.
And then I spotted them. Three dusty cane baskets tucked away under the spare bed. Remnants from an era when little black cylinders were sent away to return as photos in red and yellow envelopes. I still harbour violent thoughts about a winter school holiday ten years ago when childhood egocentricity compelled the youngest to archive the family photos, mostly so she could giggle and gloat at her own baby pictures. She performed two days of hard labour with great enthusiasm, sorting photos into big, fat albums in the order she saw fit. I fed her all her favourite foods and presented her with occasional delicious treats. Life was perfect until her father arrived home and dared to question her method. And that was the end of that.
I decided to ignore those baskets yet again and started on a pile of CDs and their many empty covers. I collected dozens more from bedrooms and cars and from a cabinet devoted to music paraphernalia. And then I imploded. Why are CDs so often devoid of identifying information? And why is the occasional print so miniscule that reading it requires standing under the brightest light in the house while peering through a magnifying glass?
“Don’t worry mum. I’ll shezam them,” said the eldest, pulling out her i-phone.
Was she speaking English? Was that me criticising technology? Can someone spare me an app to deal with three cane baskets under my spare bed?
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