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- Anita Burgh
- I am a writer - late developer since I wasn't published until I was 50. I have now written 23 novels, numerous short stories and articles.
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Monday 5 May 2014
It’s hard to admit
but the inevitable has happened and I have to acknowledge my age is catching up
with me – as yet I refuse to say it has totally caught up!
What happened to change my attitude. We moved house. They say that the stress of moving is second
to divorce or death of a loved one. I
had always laughed at this concept, what softies people are was my conclusion. House moving for me was a regular occurrence
– this was my 30th to date – I always approached it with optimism
and excitement. A new house, a new
beginning, new friends and a chance to get rid of things and to finally sort
out the drawers, which, I promised myself every New Year I would keep tidy and
which every year were neglected and so full one had difficulty shutting them –
until a moving date was arranged.
Were we making the right choice never
entered my mind – mansion, new build or cottage the anticipation was great and
was, I thought, similar to the first day back at school or starting to write a
new novel.
Wrong!
This time the muddle we created doesn’t
get any better after three weeks of taking possession the removal boxes await
my attention, loads of them. My theory
is that at night they have orgies and create more boxes to empty.
It’s not as if we are dumbing down, no
way, this house is larger than move number 29 was, so sorting should be
easier. Wrong! This house is cluttered to the roof top with
my things.
‘ You own too much, you’ve got to get rid of some stuff . . .’ This is the opinion of my long suffering
daughter who is already custodian to loads of books, coffee tables, curtains
and linen. It’s easy to say but hard to
do. How can I possibly choose when most
of my stuff – how I hate that word - for
what is stuff to some is treasure to me.
For example, I have some hideous
ornaments of dogs – presents from my children when young, how can I throw them
away? I have virtually every birthday,
valentine and Christmas card sent me. I
have hats I never wear but remind me of the day I wore them and the happiness I
encountered. I do sometimes throw things
out – witness the scores of champagne bottles I once jettisoned, it was hard
for on each one I had written what we had been celebrating when we had drunk
it.
Then there are the paintings. I love them all, the walls of my homes are
normally crowded with them, each one tells me where it wants to go – I used to
hang them myself, now the arthritis in my elbows won’t let me so they stand
forlorn waiting to put up. Old age is
not for wimps my friend Felicity told me.
I’d best not start on the clothes. Suffice to say the optimist I am always hopes
I will one day get in those that are too small for me, and the logical me says
best to keep everything that is too big incase I get larger. To compound the problem I’ve bought some new
– mainly to cheer me up.
I am tired of the struggle. Fed up with doing too much. Fearful of the knowledge that I can no longer
do what I used to do. Am I old? Too old for this moving lark.
Depression loomed large until a
friend’s mother said it was time I acknowledged I was old. Unwittingly she is my savior. Old? Me?
B******* say I as I open yet another box
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I thought that last sentence was going to end "as I open another bottle of champagne." Why don't you? Things will seem better afterwards.
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