And Everything In Its Place
"A place for everything, and everything in its place." So my Grandma used to say: my mother's mother, Charlotte, who lived with us here for many years and was always trying to make order out of our chaos.
Good idea, Grandma, and I'm trying to put it into practice.
The trouble is, nothing that has entered this house has ever left. Or so it seems, anyway.
There are layers and layers of Ancestral Junk, dating from different periods in time.
There are boxes of Parental Junk. Much of it's next door at their house, but I still discover little caches of books with titles like "Greatest Short Stories of the 1930s", and a little membership booklet to show that, after the Second World War, my mother was a Friend of Czechoslovakia.
There are my brother's old school exercise books. My old school exercise books. Emily's old school exercise books. Old drawings. Old paintings. Old clothes. Old blankets. Old toys. In the depths of cupboards, old wallpaper. Many, many old postcards and old greetings cards.
Some things I can give to a charity shop - other things have such a sentimental hold on me that I just go "aaaaaaah" and have to find somewhere to put them.
I have to say that the other members of my family don't help - they all hate throwing things away. If I hire a skip and put things in it, my mother will take half of them out again.
So I'm sorting, and sorting, and sorting.
After a while, I can't face it any more and it's then I turn to ironing.
Ironing's a job I go for when I feel I should be doing something useful, but can't face anything else.
For ironing, to me, feels like cheating, because I can do it whilst watching television. I don't mind doing it: I'm quite good at it: and I like the resulting pile of folded, ironed clothes.
I know that many people these days don't bother with ironing, and I know it doesn't usually matter, unless you need a smart shirt for something.
Perhaps one day I'll think "That's it, no more ironing for me!" But that won't be until there's a place for everything in this house, and everything's in its place. I can't see that happening any time soon.
Good idea, Grandma, and I'm trying to put it into practice.
The trouble is, nothing that has entered this house has ever left. Or so it seems, anyway.
There are layers and layers of Ancestral Junk, dating from different periods in time.
There are boxes of Parental Junk. Much of it's next door at their house, but I still discover little caches of books with titles like "Greatest Short Stories of the 1930s", and a little membership booklet to show that, after the Second World War, my mother was a Friend of Czechoslovakia.
There are my brother's old school exercise books. My old school exercise books. Emily's old school exercise books. Old drawings. Old paintings. Old clothes. Old blankets. Old toys. In the depths of cupboards, old wallpaper. Many, many old postcards and old greetings cards.
Some things I can give to a charity shop - other things have such a sentimental hold on me that I just go "aaaaaaah" and have to find somewhere to put them.
I have to say that the other members of my family don't help - they all hate throwing things away. If I hire a skip and put things in it, my mother will take half of them out again.
So I'm sorting, and sorting, and sorting.
After a while, I can't face it any more and it's then I turn to ironing.
Ironing's a job I go for when I feel I should be doing something useful, but can't face anything else.
For ironing, to me, feels like cheating, because I can do it whilst watching television. I don't mind doing it: I'm quite good at it: and I like the resulting pile of folded, ironed clothes.
I know that many people these days don't bother with ironing, and I know it doesn't usually matter, unless you need a smart shirt for something.
Perhaps one day I'll think "That's it, no more ironing for me!" But that won't be until there's a place for everything in this house, and everything's in its place. I can't see that happening any time soon.
posted by Daphne at 10:40 pm
3 Comments:
I have a place for everything. Just everything is not in it's place. I also don't iron. I think I have an iron, but I'm not sure anymore.
I love wearing ironed shirts and sleeping on ironed sheets and pillow cases and carrying a folded ironed handkerchief, but I haven't done any of these things in years and years and years. Mrs. Rhymeswithplague is a great believer in the "no-iron shirt" (which it definitely isn't, in my opinion) and the spray bottle product that claims to be a "de-wrinkler" (which it also definitely isn't). Of course, I could pick up the iron myself, but that's taking things a little too far. One day, I just may, though, if I can figure out a way to do it without hurting Mrs. Rhymeswithplague's feelings. Until then, looking less than spiffy will have to do.
My daughter, who is 40, doesn't even own an iron.
There are worse things than being a Friend of Czechoslovakia.
I don't mind ironing at all and it does give a feeling of satisfaction when you look at a pile of freshly ironed clothes. However my friend, T.K. never irons, ever.
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