A life of stuff

I succeeded in the getting a job bit. But it meant moving back in with my parents. Which sort of undermines the fact I’m finally salaried and have escaped the grips of studentdom and dependence on the parents.

So it’s with glee that I can announce I’ve moved out of the family home and in to my own love nest with my other half.

So far it’s been a happy time. We unfortunately had to do a (earlier than expected) meet the in-laws dinner, as his parents drove the whole way up Britain with a rent-a-van.

There have been a couple of arguments over who’s done the most unpacking/cleaning/important jobs in each room, but generally we’ve shared the burden.

But the main bone of contention I have is the amount of STUFF my other half has. It was my duty to unpack the box labelled ‘ kitchen’. One would expect pots, pans, plates and cutlery. We had those. We had them by the plenty. But we also had little silver canapé dishes, tiny little bowls presumably for detailed table arrangements, a variety of metal tankers with names and dates on them, little glass jam pots with cork lids (x4), enough kitchen roll to paper the walls in the kitchen, six ugly soup bowls and five tin openers. I mean, we like convenient living, but five tin openers is just unnecessary.

Then the other ‘stuff boxes’ (admittedly we all have them – the plastic boxes we fill with miscellaneous things we can’t bear to throw out). They filled up two whole massive storage cupboards. We have a table, four chairs, a wardrobe, various cameras from various eras, a turntable, records, camping equipment for 50 people, big rugs, small rugs, hairy rugs, smelly rugs, mouldy bed sheets… I could go on.

Really. What are two journalists with limited cash flow going to do with all this crap? So the mission is to a) sell it, b) take it to Oxfam or c) recycle it. Tin opener, anyone?