Getting rid of stuff – the recycling ordeal!
Getting rid of unused clutter can be therapeutic. Part of me wants to work like a bulldozer, chucking things into a skip, yet I can’t help but hesitate to consider the value of every item in case it could be recycled.
I made a start on de-cluttering my parents’ home of some of the forty-five years’ worth of accumulated stuff, feeling challenged to decide whether a charity shop could sell it, or if there would be a suitable skip at the recycling centre, or worst-case landfill.
The indoor things are in good condition. There’s a grufty old typewriter, but would ribbons still be available? I have seen sculptures made from typewriter keys, so I’m sure someone somewhere could use it. What about my old wedding dress that’s been in the wardrobe in what was my room there since 1987? The fabric is nice and could be recycled. Or maybe a theatre company could make use of the dress?
Finding a home for these random items is time-consuming, and I live a four-hour drive away from my home town, and don’t have space at my place to bring too much stuff back. Also, if there are no takers after it’s been advertised for free on Facebook, I’d have to take it to my local tip. To do this, I must make an appointment, booked online, providing my car registration number. Our tip is only open 3 days per week and you can’t go more than 4 times over 2 weeks. What happens if you’ve filled your car with crap but get held up for some reason and miss your slot? In this age in the UK, where it seems to take forever to get anything done, as you battle from one hurdle to the next, even going to the tip has become a traumatic experience for over-thinkers!
At least at Mum’s local tip is open 7 days a week and you don’t need to book an appointment, but that still doesn’t make it a great day out …
Council tip supervisor to me as I’m heading for the small electrical appliance skip with an ancient black & white portable TV; “Is that a television?”
“Yes it is?”
“Portacabin 2, over there!”
Then I brought the old car wheel out. “Is that a car wheel?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a charge for car wheels. It’s £1.50.”
“Okay, back in a minute.” Returns with £1.50.
“We don’t take cash. Card only. And you get a receipt.”
I will never condone fly tipping, but I’m beginning to understand why it happens.
I managed to clear lots of stuff from the dilapidated shed and garage in a short time, because I was certain no-one would ever make use of. It would be just a case of which skip at the tip.
My lovely Dad passed away last year. Until his final years, he was the tower of strength who always knew the right thing to do in any situation. He was also a natural mechanic, and kept our old cars going. He saved a lot of bits and bobs just in case. “If you’ve got it, you won’t need it.” Many of them were still in the garage, because we’d been lucky enough not to need them! I had a little howl, and said out loud, “I love you, Dad!”
The feeling of Dad’s presence was mostly because the garage had been his domain, but also owing to the Robin who was supervising that day. He seemed to be drawn to me, yet flighty if I put my hand out. This was before the cold snap, so I don’t think he was especially hungry, but I put food on the bird table in case this was simply a garden bird in need, and not a visit from a beloved soul.
Here is a photo of the Robin in Mum and Dad’s garden that day:
He even perched on the old vacuum hose amongst this pile of shite. You can just see him – it’s a bit blurry because he disappeared when I pointed the camera at him – just as Dad would have done.
I sensed there was something in the corner of the shed that should not be disturbed, and hoped I wasn’t about to discover a dead cat or something …
The shed door doesn’t close properly, and there are gaps around the floor where the wood has rotted away. Happily, it wasn’t a dead cat but a hibernating hedgehog. If you look carefully beneath the torn yellow plastic, you can see his prickles.
This gave me the best excuse ever not to finish clearing out the shed!
Back home and making a start on Christmas shopping, I bought a gift for a friend who is very environmentally friendly, from a shop is all sustainable and ethically resourced. I paid just short of £20 for 2 pairs of ladies’ bamboo socks. (I’ve always been more of a 5 pairs for £5 girl!)
I took courage to ask the shop owner if there was a little bag I could buy, so that my friend might appreciate the value of the socks, and so that I didn’t have to chuck them in my shopping bag on top of the mushrooms I’d just bought.
Her eyes lit up. “Yes, there is!” … and she put the socks in a little bag that had been skilfully folded from old newspapers.
So, what did I do when I got home?
I put the socks in a small plastic sandwich bag, because I was worried the newsprint would rub off on the socks, meaning I would be giving my friend 2 pairs of grubby socks for Christmas. Then I put the plastic bag back into the recycled newspaper bag.
Oh well.
Word on a Whim 