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| Charles and Di mugs and badges – the detritus of girlhood I can’t throw away | Charles and Di mugs and badges – the detritus of girlhood I can’t throw away |
| (30 days later) | |
| One of the more sobering aspects of returning home for Christmas is encountering all the junk in the parental home which it has proved impossible to throw away. For years my dad ran a low-level campaign against my A-level notes and this was, in the end, successful. But after they went into the skip, the dust merely cleared to reveal mountains of other stuff – bits of old clothes, 30‑year‑old birthday cards, work diaries from the 1990s – all of which have survived several house moves and carry the air of the cockroach no manmade event can destroy. | One of the more sobering aspects of returning home for Christmas is encountering all the junk in the parental home which it has proved impossible to throw away. For years my dad ran a low-level campaign against my A-level notes and this was, in the end, successful. But after they went into the skip, the dust merely cleared to reveal mountains of other stuff – bits of old clothes, 30‑year‑old birthday cards, work diaries from the 1990s – all of which have survived several house moves and carry the air of the cockroach no manmade event can destroy. |
| Celebrate the winter solstice to reclaim the festive spirit | Gillian Monks | Celebrate the winter solstice to reclaim the festive spirit | Gillian Monks |
| Perhaps it’s because I’m with my children and low on patience this time round, but for the first time I have been struck by the sheer randomness of what has been saved. Sitting on the top floor of my dad’s house, going through boxes, I worry, suddenly, that I will die and these items will be elevated by my children to the level of heirlooms and, my God, is this what I’m leaving them? My mother’s wedding ring, fair enough; plus an art deco ring of hers that, among the detritus accumulated in my 20s, is a very nice piece that I’m ecstatic to find. | Perhaps it’s because I’m with my children and low on patience this time round, but for the first time I have been struck by the sheer randomness of what has been saved. Sitting on the top floor of my dad’s house, going through boxes, I worry, suddenly, that I will die and these items will be elevated by my children to the level of heirlooms and, my God, is this what I’m leaving them? My mother’s wedding ring, fair enough; plus an art deco ring of hers that, among the detritus accumulated in my 20s, is a very nice piece that I’m ecstatic to find. |
| But then, this: my “collection” of mugs celebrating royal occasions, including Charles and Di’s wedding and the Queen’s 1977 jubilee. Without having any firm evidence for it, I feel that as a child I was led to believe they would one day be priceless. There’s my grandfather’s leather-bound works of Dickens, which smell of mould and depressing Sunday afternoons and which I wouldn’t visit on anyone. | But then, this: my “collection” of mugs celebrating royal occasions, including Charles and Di’s wedding and the Queen’s 1977 jubilee. Without having any firm evidence for it, I feel that as a child I was led to believe they would one day be priceless. There’s my grandfather’s leather-bound works of Dickens, which smell of mould and depressing Sunday afternoons and which I wouldn’t visit on anyone. |
| And – oh God – a belt made of shells, the full awfulness of which strikes me for the first time, along with an entire drawerful of things summed up by two badges, one of which says Lady Detective and the other, inside a heart, I Love Richard and Judy. | And – oh God – a belt made of shells, the full awfulness of which strikes me for the first time, along with an entire drawerful of things summed up by two badges, one of which says Lady Detective and the other, inside a heart, I Love Richard and Judy. |
| There is often an inverse relationship between the trivial nature of a keepsake and the wonder it evokes, simply through having survived. This is particularly true after a death, when the more banal the item, the more devastating the pathos. | There is often an inverse relationship between the trivial nature of a keepsake and the wonder it evokes, simply through having survived. This is particularly true after a death, when the more banal the item, the more devastating the pathos. |
| When grief came, my world crumbled. I don't want that to happen to you | Professor Green | When grief came, my world crumbled. I don't want that to happen to you | Professor Green |
| I remember looking with crazed abandon at my mother’s sewing kit after she died. It wasn’t some beautiful embroidered trinket but a cracked plastic container that used to house Sellotape. My mother hated sewing and would have been annoyed beyond words at my sentimental collapse. | I remember looking with crazed abandon at my mother’s sewing kit after she died. It wasn’t some beautiful embroidered trinket but a cracked plastic container that used to house Sellotape. My mother hated sewing and would have been annoyed beyond words at my sentimental collapse. |
| Even crazier to be moved by one’s own crummy baggage. A card from someone congratulating me on getting my 10-metre swimming badge; another card, with lots of kisses, from someone called Christoph. Who was Christoph? I have no idea. I would be better off weightless, without all this garbage, and yet the idea of it being in landfill is somehow unthinkable. Better to burn it myself, if that weren’t histrionic and also subject to logistical challenge. | Even crazier to be moved by one’s own crummy baggage. A card from someone congratulating me on getting my 10-metre swimming badge; another card, with lots of kisses, from someone called Christoph. Who was Christoph? I have no idea. I would be better off weightless, without all this garbage, and yet the idea of it being in landfill is somehow unthinkable. Better to burn it myself, if that weren’t histrionic and also subject to logistical challenge. |
| With a certain amount of dread, then, I shove it all back in the drawer. I need a longer run-up to dealing with it. Just another few years, until I’m comfortably in my mid-40s. That seems reasonable, right? I’ll chuck it out next Christmas. For sure. | With a certain amount of dread, then, I shove it all back in the drawer. I need a longer run-up to dealing with it. Just another few years, until I’m comfortably in my mid-40s. That seems reasonable, right? I’ll chuck it out next Christmas. For sure. |
| • Emma Brockes is a Guardian columnist based in New York | • Emma Brockes is a Guardian columnist based in New York |
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