The Red Mist - like anyone actually cares…

Now that Mum’s funeral is over with, all the necessary but unpleasant post-death formalities are under way - the shutting down of accounts, the will being submitted for probate, and worst of all, the emptying of her house of her belongings.

This is the third time in as many years that I’ve had to dispose of a loved-one’s things; intimate or personal stuff such as clothing and knick-knacks that they used every day. It still makes me feel like a traitor, as though I’m somehow betraying them by disposing of the evidence of their lives. It isn’t really betrayal, of course. To hang onto the stuff would turn their homes into mausoleums; it’s bad enough having to deal with the loss of someone dear without constantly being surrounded by a pretence of their continued presence.

So, although it’s tough, it has to be done, especially when their home is to be sold. This will feel especially strange, as it is the house that I was brought up in, from the age of two. Not to have any reason to go there after 53 years will feel very odd; it’s been a constant in my life that pre-dates my earliest memory.

Whenever you have to sort through peoples’ stuff when they die, you have to probe into the darkest corners of their place in a way you would never dream of doing if they were alive. And it’s bound to throw up some surprises. I always knew that my Mum was a hoarder (she passed it onto me, I have to admit), but the sheer scale of it was a bit of an eye-opener. Bless her, she’d kept just about every plastic bag, margarine tub and Christmas pudding bowl she’d ever had. There were literally hundreds of them, the bags neatly folded and secreted in the smallest of spaces. Going back decades. Enough to open a museum for the most discerning plastic bag enthusiast to marvel at.

And curtains, bedding, towels. And enough rubber gloves to wash dishes in for the next millennium. I could go on, but even I’d be bored with the list.

Actually disposing of the sheer mountain of all this, including the clothes and shoes that she’d amassed, is proving a challenge. The local charity shops will be buckling under the strain, and even bringing some of it back from Liverpool to Wales will take a while.

All this is making me realise how pointless our accumulation of worldly goods is. I’m more determined than ever to not only continue with my own efforts to de-clutter (which is actually going very well, thanks for asking), but to stop buying more stuff unless it makes a significant difference to my well-being.

As my welcome at charity shops is starting to wear a bit thin, I’ve taken to using the Freecycle mechanism to dispose of stuff. So far, I’ve managed to get rid of a rather strange ski-type exercise machine that was dumped on me when my guard was down, some redundant and obsolete computer equipment, a teasmade-like thing and some other bits and pieces. I really do recommend it - you’ll be surprised at the kind of stuff that you can give away (or even acquire, if you like), and all for the princely sum of precisely nowt.

At least when I pop my clogs, there won’t be a European Crap Mountain to get rid of.