Three weeks after returning from my trip to Ireland, I finally finished emptying my suitcase. There wasn't much left, in fairness - I unpacked the bulk of it as soon as I came home. But there were a few stray bits and pieces still knocking around this morning, the flotsam and jetsam of every trip, those sad little artefacts you don't seem to need urgently, or at all.
For me, it's three pairs of woolly socks I brought to Ireland with me, a big bag of cheap earrings I foolishly harvested in New Look and a neon pink beanie I couldn't go past in Forever 21. I was exceptionally jet-lagged when I saw it, which is why I couldn't go past it, even though wearing neon pink around my face makes me look bilious and possibly insane.
These odds and ends I finally decanted this morning, along with a small bottle of holy water my mother snuck in there before I left her house so that my plane wouldn't go down. They're sitting in my bedroom now, in a small pathetic pile in the middle of my room. Neon and holy and useless to me. There they will stay, bothering me with their utter redundancy until I decide what to do with them all.
The irony of this is that the only reason I cleared the suitcase was so I could refill it again with all the other redundant crap I emptied out of it so I could go abroad.
I have too much stuff. I try hard to be a discerning and ethical shopper, but stuff sneaks up on me, no matter how much I try to stream-line the load.
