I’ve recently had an incredible away day. An opportunity to immerse myself in new sights and sounds, to explore areas I didn’t know existed. To expose myself to risks with rewards.
I started out early doors, suitably equipped with beany hat, gloves and a light jacket. After a tiring, sometimes traumatic day, I returned to the bosom of my comfy, warm home, shattered, a little grubby, but in the words of Nina Simone, ‘And I’m feeling good.’
With a few riders, that is.
Yes dear reader, I spent a day decluttering the loft. A space I’ve neglected of late, the trauma of a dusty cobweb, dangling from my derriere, still filling my mind. (I had cleared out a significant portion of the loft, unaware of this hanging horror, until my husband pointed it out as I descended the ladder, juggling several jaunty ‘how can I live without them’ jumpers, I’d forgotten existed).
You may be wondering what prompted this day, dedicated to heavy-duty dusting, cleaning, and decluttering, not to mention swooning at spoils believed to have been gobbled up by the loft gremlin?
Retrieving the suitcases for our annual trip to Devon.
Now I concede, I’m partial to a snazzy suitcase or three, but when I poked my head above the parapet and discovered we had 10, I realised we were both showing signs of borderline hoarding. As I have shared in previous columns, Blick Villas is now home to just the two of us. The days of needing 10 suitcases are long gone, with the last son, fleeing the coop, me chasing after him, reminding him that his five-a-day was for fruit and veg, not shots.
Amongst the sorry spectacle of suitcases, I discovered several destined for recycling. There was a large blue suitcase, one of its two wheels now departed. Decanting its contents revealed several dresses I looked wonderful in when I was a size, erm let’s move on. The ‘shock horror’ was, however, left until the last suitcase. I was horrified to find a favoured blouse, once carefully wrapped in tissue, now reduced to shredded fabric. Note to oneself: don’t tip said suitcase onto the floor. Thankfully, the mice had disappeared, no doubt into the kitchen carousel to torment me when Katie Wellman was decluttering it. Their leftovers – a supersize portion of dry droppings, decanted onto my jeans with the rest, cascading down the loft hatch, landing on my freshly hoovered carpet.
I confess I screamed at this point. Is there anything scarier than encountering mice droppings mixed in with your shredded specimens?
I think not.
Suitcases sorted, I turned my attention to the space calling my name for a good rummage and recycle.
The boys’ toys.
What possessed me, 25 years ago, to keep most of their toys bar the battered and broken-beyond-the-point- of- no- return, I don’t know. An army of Action men awaited me – 30 of them prepared to go into battle with the enemy, but thankfull,y no mice on show. Next up, a carefully curated box of Pokémon cards. A phone call to my boys drew responses of: ‘Don’t throw them away, Mum, they could be worth a lot,’ followed by ‘Bring the box down so we can look at them on Sunday.’ Younger son decided to join me albeit briefly, to explore the Pokémon spoils. A swift online search ended any fancy notion of an early retirement.
Back in the box they went.
I then alighted on my husband’s pristine collection of The World’s Wild Places. Twenty-five books with no signs of tampering, including of being read. But no parting with those pages.
As hubby said, “We must keep these because…”
I shot back without a pause…
“The boys will burn them when we pop off and I don’t mean to John Lewis.”
My final stop, the crowning glory of a day spent clawing through cobwebs and forming neat piles for our next tip trip.
The Christmas decorations.
In recent years, both husband and I have been baffled at the disappearance of many of these fondant fancies. I’m talking the wreaths you hang over the door (if you can find the ‘hangy’ thing that is), the miniature nativity scenes and don’t get me started on the box of 30 glass angels, snowmen and Santas, a bargain in the garden centre’s January sale, never to be seen again.
I decided that in pursuit of these lost treasures, a military operation was required. So, wearing my essential protective gear – beany hat, light anorak and gloves, I embarked on an under-the-eaves adventure, which quickly descended into a nightmare, culminating in me screaming at my husband to rescue me from the large cobweb, complete with live spider that decided to attack my face, just as I reached the summit.
However, lovely readers, this story does have a happy ending.
Once husband had soothed my frayed emotions with an oaty matcha milkshake, we re-entered the loft, suitably fortified, me barking out commands from the nerve centre, smack bang in the middle of the space, not a spider in sight.
Calling in back-up paid off. We found the entire bounty of lost decorations, in a huge bag, stuffed under the eaves, along with a decapitated Christmas tree, several gift bags filled with presents from the mice and an assortment of carpet offcuts. ‘Just in case.’ Given that the downstairs is now wall-to-wall posh lino, the case for cut-offs is closed.
Instinctively, I knew what had happened.
The precious haul had been placed there, out of sight, for when the loft thief returned, fully protected in his Hamzat suit.
About Dee Blick
Local Horsham resident, Dee, is something of a writer.
In fact, she has written five books of note, with her sixth now safe and sound at her publishers, scheduled for release in November. Her most recent book, The Boutique, is a collection of nine gritty and moving short stories, with each character connected through their appreciation of a fashion shop. She has just finished writing her fifth marketing book – You’re the Best! How to build an authentic and magnetic personal brand. When Dee is not writing books, you’ll find her writing articles like this one or heading to a local café to satisfy her desire for sourdough toast with marmite, accompanied by Pear and Apple juice.
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