At home helping the old folk "downsize". That word has been added to my most hated cliches list. Moving to a smaller place simply means throwing out a load of stuff. By now, I have already disposed of everything I didn't really want. We are down to the things nobody wanted to make a decision on. It is depressing.
Today I went through a box of photos handed to us after my uncle's death. We don't know most of the people in the pics, but throwing them away feels terrible. These were records of happy times, but they are totally meaningless to us. Is this what a life amounts to? Discarded photos?
Next, load Val's car up with stuff to go to the dump. I'm very thankful she has offered to help us out. It makes it easier to get rid of the vestiges of my student life, the discarded works of "art", the disintegrating relics of my teenage years. I don't want or need them. They've been mouldering away in my parents' boxroom for 30 odd years. And time has not treated them very well. Pictures are faded. Posters are dirty and dusty. A pile of rubbish, but sentimental rubbish.
Tomorrow I have to get the "good" stuff ready for the charity shops. I have to heave it all to the garage so that someone can collect it all on Monday. What remains after that will be put into 3 boxes, and transported to my home.
Please, can somebody remind me not to let this happen to me at age 76? Remind me to continually "downsize". Remind me to get rid of the stuff I don't need, and pass it on to people who can use it. This downsizing is too sad, too pointless and too wasteful.
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