We are emptying the loft, and getting more ruthless by the day.
We have dismantled the smelly wardrobe which has made all of our nicest clothes smell musty. Mark has extracted vengeance upon it by sawing it up and we are burning it, bit by bit. It is stacked next to the fire where it is actually making the kitchen smell horrible, with a last defiant waft of ancient damp whenever we come in from the conservatory, it is even worse than the cat litter. Mark said that it was made of compressed sawdust, and the musty smell has crept into the very fabric of it. I will be very glad indeed when it has gone, its final act being to heat the water for trying yet again to wash the smell out of its beautiful but hapless victims.
Talking of the cat litter, which I am sure you would rather I didn’t, I have moved it out into the garden. This new development happened after I realised this morning that the cats were restlessly hanging about in the garden mewing, and then as soon as somebody helpfully opened the door, dashing inside for a poo and then dashing straight back out again.
Sometimes I am not an animal lover.
Of course we have unearthed some very useful things in the loft. They must be useful because we have hung on to them for years and years. There is a large microscope and a Victorian box curiosity. You hold the little rods and somebody else turns the handle, at which point you get an electric shock. It is supposed to be helpful for something, although I am not quite sure what, perhaps some kind of primitive interrogation technique. I have suggested that Lucy takes it with her when she joins the CID in a few weeks, but she has declined, it seems that she prefers to get her confessions by the less spectacular method of sympathetic listening and occasional nods of empathy, at which point people own up in a gush of relief.
There are boxes and boxes of dreadful photographs, taken before the days when digital photography made it possible to make people look acceptable instead of weird. Some are Mark’s, which don’t feature any people. These photographs show things like tiny Land-Rovers half-hidden behind massive clouds of black smoke somewhere in the far distance. There were several that Lucy thought depicted a scrap yard and was rather surprised to find that they were just memoirs of his shed before he met me. He is no longer allowed to own eight Land Rovers in various degrees of decrepitude, not even if he intends to build a new one out of all of the usable bits.
There is a piano and a drum kit, lots of ancient children’s clothes, and a dressing gown belonging to Ritalin Boy that had been inexplicably hidden inside the big drum. There must be nearly an acre of heavy curtain fabrics, waiting for Lucy’s new house. There were half a dozen exotic rugs, but misfortunately these turned out to be full of moths and had to make a hasty journey to the dustbin. Also there was a teetering pile of books, and my secret collection of Royal Albert vintage china.
I don’t exactly fib about this, but it is one of those addictive purchase things that I try to pretend to myself that I don’t do. The trouble is that I have explained all of my guilty longings to our mighty Internet cyber-supervisors, who helpfully Alert me with a series of exciting dings whenever anything thrilling and irresistible turns up for sale. I am still gazing hopefully at a beautiful two-pint Lady Carlyle teapot that I know perfectly well I can’t afford, but if I win the lottery before next Tuesday it will be mine.
There is an enormous drawer full of these wickedly irresponsible purchases. They have all been lovingly wrapped in tissue paper to preserve them from the sort of accidental misfortune to which china is regrettably prone. The dear late Queen, and probably now her son, used to wash hers in a special wooden sink to keep it safe, how sensible she was.
If anybody needs props for a film featuring a Victorian tea party don’t hesitate to give me a call. I will not lend you any because it is too beautiful and precious, but you can admire it from a distance if you like.
We watched a film the other night which spoiled any pretence at accuracy by including a Royal Albert teapot at least fifty years before that design had occurred. I shouted at the screen, but of course it wasn’t listening. I would most certainly not have lent them any of my china to be so recklessly misleading and unrealistic.
I am not clearing any of the china out of the loft. I cannot be that ruthless.
It is clearing, slowly but surely. By Christmas we might even be able to get in to it.
