I’m not at all certain whether this is an aspect of life in general or whether it is a peculiarity of Vicarage life but I find myself faced with the challenge of downsizing once again.
It has happened before.
Moving from an 18th Century Rectory to a relatively modern house in a Cathedral Close involved downsizing and to a degree modernising, much of what was disposed of was replaced with newer furniture that fitted more appropriately into the new house.
Moving from our 5 Bedroom Vicarage where one bedroom served as my library to a much smaller modern house was an occasion for books to be thinned out (All the paper backs went to Oxfam) for furniture to go to the Auction (the value of a life went under the hammer) and when we got to the new house, the van driver commented, my Van is bigger than your house!
But we managed!
This move is different again as I realise that I should be aiming for minimalism elsewise my family will be faced with numerous journeys to the tip once I am no longer around to confuse rational decision making with irrational romantic memories which the books and furniture generate.
As I have already observed: Nostalgia is not what it used to be!
This Blog was prompted when I opened a tin box to be reminded that this was my inheritance. When he left for Australia to marry his second wife, my Father solemnly handed me the tin box in question commenting that he had no further use for it, it contained Birth, Marriage and Death notices for my Mother’s extended family.
It raises the question of what I do with it, scrap it? Give it to one of my children? Leave it for my executors to sort out?
It’s difficult because I realise that this move will, in all probability be my last move.
It is my second retirement and following my surgery and the morbidity rate associated with that life changing event, I will not be seeking further employment, paid or unpaid.
This time I am trying to be tough, reference books especially need to be disposed of, not just because they take up space and have to be dusted, but because they have been replaced by Google, if I need to find something all I have to do is Google and the mysterious, magical Algorithims will seek out the answer.
Indeed my surgery began with a consultation with Dr Google, the GP insisted on an endoscoopy before he would agree with the good Doctors Algorithmic conclusion resulting in the discovery of the rumours of tumours and the surgery which has changed my life.
So the house is filled with black plastic bags and banana boxes and my days are filled with charity shop runs and tip runs as we try to fit the gallons of acumulated detritus of life into the pint pot of our new home.
Fewer rooms, fewer walls, fewer out buildings, less storage space mean that when I reach that six feet of dirty earth as tears are, possibly or possibly not, shed by those in mourning they will at least not have to embark on the last rite of the final tip run that marks the end of my human existence.
Comments
Post a Comment