Kevin Page: Decluttering the house is music to my ears

Kevin Page is on a mission - a decluttering mission. Photo / 123rf

OPINION

So, Mrs P has drawn the short straw and is propping up the health system through the Christmas-New Year period. This has left me with some time on my hands. Or at least it should have.

What I had initially planned as some fairly cruisy alone time - interrupted only by the odd bit of exhausting labour like taking the rubbish bins out or unloading the dishwasher – has turned into something far more intense.

I have been decluttering.

Now, if you have trodden this path yourself you will know it’s an exercise in negotiation as much as one of physical exertion.

In my case it’s been one of celebrating small victories, accepting it’s not going to be completed in one day and keeping an eye on the prize ahead.

In our case that “prize” is the posh caravan we have our sights set on, possibly renting the house out and going on the road for a bit. But before I go off on that tangent let’s go back to the start.

It started on Christmas night. As we drove home from an exhausting day with the littlies we had a chat about our future plans.

By the end of that journey we had made a firm commitment to stop talking about our plans as we have been doing for ages - the Boomerang Child calls it “paralysis by analysis” - and just get on with it.

In that vein, Mrs P decreed I should set about decluttering the house while she was at work.

This was indeed music to my ears.

I have made several attempts over the years to find space somewhere, anywhere, in our humble abode but have often been thwarted by fellow residents who are reluctant to part with “things”. Negotiations have often broken down at that point and the status quo is retained.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m as sentimental as the next bloke. Possibly more so.

I have a tin from the 1960s in which I keep some personal memorabilia. Some may find my collection odd.

Like the official notice of my School C results from 44 years ago. A badge I got from Coco The Clown who opened a supermarket in my town in England when I was 6.

There’s even a lock of my own hair which my mother gave me recently. It’s almost 60 years old now but I’m keeping it. I figure there might be some DNA breakthrough some time soon and I could have it replanted and grow back that David Bowie ginger mullet I had in 1972.

Anyway. So the decluttering is a go, with formal approval from the highest level, and I’m into it.

I’ve started in the garage. There are two reasons for this.

Firstly, Mrs P will see me going through my tools and chucking out/donating/selling what I don’t need and will be impressed I’m starting with my stuff and will want to follow my lead. Obviously there won’t be much to get rid of, if any at all, because I am sure I will need absolutely all of them some time in the future. Probably. Possibly.

And secondly, a decluttering of the garage will mean a lot more space to bring stuff from inside out - if you get my drift – sort of like a staging post. Experience tells me once stuff has come out of the house it’s less likely to go back in.

So, I’m into it.

All my tools have been sorted as has the infamous pile of wood out the back. You know the one. The one us blokes have “just in case” we need a little bit of size X and thickness Y for project Z. I am absolutely certain something will crop up next week requiring exactly the piece of timber I’ve just taken to the dump. But anyway.

That done I’ve now moved on to the four large storage cupboards which line the side wall of the garage.

I put these in not long after we moved in for, well, storage.

It has to be said, since then Mrs P and the spawn of our union have done a remarkable job of filling up every inch of said space.

Upon opening the doors I discovered five boxes of Christmas decorations, a box of old records, every school book No.1 Son has ever owned, a large box of pre-teen toys, four kids’ wetsuits, more shoes than Imelda Marcos ever owned, three empty suitcases, a bag of rather smelly hockey gear, a huge stack of old framed photographs and a wooden kava bowl we bought back from holiday in Samoa intending for it to take pride of place in the lounge. It never did.

The keen-eyed among you will note many of the aforementioned items would most likely be owned by the kids. You would be correct.

I’m thinking somewhere along the line the occasional services of the Bank of Mum and Dad have been replaced by the need for the more regular services of Mum and Dad Storage. Obviously I’ve missed signing that contract but judging by the state and age of some of this stuff it looks like the company has been supplying space (without payment) for some time. Presumably the other director of the company is aware of this.

So, anyway. There I am faced with the mountain of stuff. I decide the best thing to do is get it all out and arrange it on the floor of the garage so I can get instruction from She Who Must Be Obeyed as to what to do with it.

Half an hour later it’s all out and I’m shaking my head in disbelief as I go to the last cupboard. How on earth did our brood become such hoarders.

A likely answer was to be found, as they say on those telly shows of yesteryear, “behind door No.4″ where Mrs P’s “things” were stored.

Now I’m sure after many hundred weeks of me prattling on about My Beloved you have a sense of what she’s like by now. Very kind. Very caring. And very loving would be a most apt description.

She’s the sort of woman who will buy a picture frame with the word “Love” on it. Or a candle (or 40) because she liked the colour and scent. She collects scarves (but rarely wears them) and drapes them over a ladder-style rack she bought at an antique shop.

She’s a big fan of those shops which sell that sort of stuff. In fact, a relative who oddly enough no longer seems to visit now I think of it, once commented the inside of our house “looks like a gift shop”.

So, you can guess what was in the last storage cupboard can’t you. It was chocker.

To be honest I felt a little bit bad.

I mean I’m all for practicality and so it absolutely made sense if there was no room in the house the overflow had to go somewhere or (gulp) just go.

But as I’m taking it out of the cupboard and setting it out on the floor I’m thinking about how Mrs P at some stage has absolutely loved this particular item or that and all she has wanted to do is put it up somewhere. And we haven’t had the room.

I’m wrestling with a little bit of guilt and thinking if I get the chance in our next house I’m going to build her a big display room for it all. Then she arrives home from work.

And as I’m standing there amid all this clutter, intent on making some space in our lives – mentally and physically – so we can move on to our next adventure, completely oblivious to my torment she let’s me know decluttering and moving on is fine but sometimes you just have to live for the day.

And how did she do that?

She bought yet another bloody candle. Apparently the colour was lovely and it smelled nice.

And she knows just the spot in our house it will look good in.