As I cruise uncertainly through the Seventh Decade, the unexpected nature of my recent life changes dictates a need to ‘multi-task’ – a term used almost exclusively by women of a liberal tendency in their never-ending search to prove that Men Are Crap and Women Are Perfect (MACAWAP).
It is I think a truism that all such bigotry contains within it a grain of truth. Which is perhaps why, at the end of most days now, my house looks as if a Cruise Missile has been at work. This is because, while there have been multiple attempts at multi-tasking, the dread anti-Christ of Distraction has led me astray.
Around 6 pm most days, I wander about feeling pleased with my achievements. Today, for example, I tended, watered and then spread wood chippings around the base of the bamboo shield I’m creating. This might sound entirely sane and normal, but the tale of how I got there is more serendipity than serene.
On awakening, I’d decided to revamp a lampshade using grey water-based paint. This task was duly completed, after which I went outside to wash the paintbrush, only to spot that the garden tap was unconnected to its yellow garden-watering pipe. As I fitted the two technologies together, my eyes were in turn drawn to the fact that the pipe meandered round the east corner of the house – not the west end beyond which lies the swimming pool.
Pottering around that corner, I saw that the wisteria was turning yellow at the edges, and obviously needed some water: so I pulled on the pipe to ready it for use, immediately noticing that it was stuck behind one of the many bits of masonry which now litter the garden. I examined the half-buried stone, and thought ‘Ah-haa, there’s a likely bit for the reclaimed stone steps’.
So I summoned Danyel the Polish mason, and he agreed yes, it could be used. But as he walked off to return to his tile-cutting, I glanced down towards the property’s entrance and saw what seemed like a very sorry line of dried-out bamboo plants. And it was then that I set about I tending, watering, and spreading wood chippings around the base of the bamboo privacy shield I’m creating.
The day progressed: and after wandering about tonight, I can report that two pool steps have been cleaned up and gravelled, some blue bubble-wrap has been employed in order to cover and thus kill off any weeds in the newly-created seedlings bed, half the washing still hasn’t been brought in, and the packing cases in the ground-floor guest bedroom have been partly emptied and moved about….while not really creating any space, as such.
The worst of the restoration environment-trashing being more or less complete here, I’ve spent much of the last week unpacking the UK removal cases. There are few things in life more alarming and confusing than the excavation of one’s life.
The process isn’t helped by the near-clinical inaccuracy with which removal blokes label the packing cases. I opened one three days ago that said ‘KITCHEN GLASSWARE’, but inside I found a rolling pin, a china pottery cheese cover, six boiled-egg holders, and 14 white plates. The one substance completely absent was glass.
The very nature of unpacking stuff you’ve had in storage, however, is the thrill – like Christmas morning in 1955 – of waking up to find Santa has left lots of mysteriously shaped presents at the end of the candlewick bedspread. Only, in the removal-men unpacking context, instead of the December 25th 6 am “Why on earth did they buy me that?” question, there is the “Blimey, I’d forgotten all about that” syndrome.
Unpacking personal possessions is a process which, on paper, should take four days, but in fact devours weeks of finding books, files, vinyl, photographs, ornaments and….the past.
Who can resist a file dating from 1973, on the cover of which there is the legend (in dear old Letraset) ‘John’s Songs’? Yes, 41 years ago I fancied myself as a composer. Having achieved the grand old age of 25, I had to accept that fame wasn’t going to be mine as a result of being the new Bobby Charlton, and so composing was my Thing for a while.
In the bottom drawer of an old filing cabinet (where else?) was a manuscript headed ‘Blue Murder’, a novel about government spin I wrote during 1989. It got down to the final selection stage at Pan, but was rejected because ‘the committee feels its central idea – that a government would invent a crime wave in order to then solve it – would not be credible for the mass-market reader’.
Old newspapers from 1958 (‘Seven Busby boys die’). Van Morrison’s album Astral Weeks from 1970. Elvis Costello’s debut disc. The Blood Donor video. A passport that expired in 1978, and appeared to be that of a Baader Meinhoff terrorist. All these things require inspection.
Every enquiring mind leaves an untidy day behind. Every packed case reveals a past every bit as unexpected as the future. That’s my excuse, and I’m sticking to it.
The Slog 