It always fascinates me what other people do with their “stuff.” Every time I visit someone else’s house there never seems to be the same amount of “stuff” as there is in our house. Where do they put it all?
would say our gaff is relatively clean but always messy. There are coats and jackets on every sofa and chair, a week’s worth of abandoned socks underneath the furniture, ironed shirts hanging on the backs of doors, shoes in every corner of every room, newspapers strewn on coffee tables, and that’s after I’ve tidied.
And yet when I call into friends houses they have neat and tidy kitchens with no overflow, mantlepieces free of detritus, cupboards where they actually keep the coats and clean and uncluttered countertops. How? I ask myself time and time again.
Recently we talked about moving. Not because of the mess, because I suspect that will follow us but for some reason we fancied being closer to town. We liked the idea of being able to walk to the pub. Maybe we’re having a joint midlife crisis!
We decided to get the house valued so a massive decluttering operation was launched. “Why do we have so much stuff?” I yelled as I looked around desperately for some where to hide it all. Maybe that’s why we were thinking of moving – lack of storage.
I went to TK Maxx and bought ten baskets of various sizes, chucking all my toiletries, makeup and sundries into them and stuffing them under the bed. All the coats hanging off the hall bannister were thrown into The Eldest’s wardrobe and the window sill crap (please tell me you all have window sill crap?) went into bags for life and shoved behind the sofa.
Fifteen minutes before the auctioneer arrived I was standing in the hall with more “stuff” in my arms and no where to put it. “The car!” I shouted as a lightbulb flashed in my head. Himself legged it and fecked a heap of belongings into his boot.
“Hide the ironing board, quick!” We looked around for somewhere to put it and eventually shoved it into the walk in wardrobe. “Do NOT open the door to that – just tell him it’s a wardrobe but do NOT open the door!” I warned, throwing in the dog’s bed and manky blanket.
So he came, he valued and he told us he could start viewings in a few weeks time. After he went we both looked at each other. “I can’t go through that again,” I said, taking the deep fat fryer, a box of empty wine bottles and a half a dozen pairs of runners out of the boot again.
“Me neither. We’re never going to be able to keep the house tidy enough for people to want to buy it” he says. “I guess we are staying put.”
I guess we are.