I have no idea what I'd throw out. I've broken too many resolutions, come off too many diets and dropped off far too many wagons to try any more!
Spring cleaning - I don't do it. Cleaning - I do as little as possible, and resent what I do. I should be writing. But I do it. It started when my arthritis worsened and became septic arthritis. I got rushed into hospital. Scary. Why is it that a really fun thing - screaming through the streets with a siren going full-tilt - is only undertaken when you're too ill to enjoy the fun?
Chances were I could lose a leg so when the doctor said no walking, except for the absolute neccessary things, I took him at his word. When they finally finished their tests and had done what procedures they needed to, they sent me home and I spent four months on the sofa, only getting off it to limp upstairs to bed. Fun at first, at the end of the first month I would have given anything to get the cleaner out and give the becrumbed carpet a good seeing-to.
But when I asked at my fun weekly checkups, x rays and needle probes, they said no. They put me on some new drugs and waited until my condition settled before they let me move about again.
Of course the family had helped somewhat, but they had just kept the neccessary things going and the house was deeply untidy and vaguely grubby. I started to clean and then it struck me - why should I, when they didn't care? I was the only idiot who moved everything off a shelf before I cleaned it and put them all back, I was the only person to make a real effort.
So I didn't. To restore it all would have taken more energy than I had (arthritis does tend to sap your energy anyway). And by then I was writing and being published. So it came down to a choice - writing or heavy duty cleaning. I made my choice. The spring cleaning went.
Nobody is dead yet.
Spring cleaning - I don't do it. Cleaning - I do as little as possible, and resent what I do. I should be writing. But I do it. It started when my arthritis worsened and became septic arthritis. I got rushed into hospital. Scary. Why is it that a really fun thing - screaming through the streets with a siren going full-tilt - is only undertaken when you're too ill to enjoy the fun?
Chances were I could lose a leg so when the doctor said no walking, except for the absolute neccessary things, I took him at his word. When they finally finished their tests and had done what procedures they needed to, they sent me home and I spent four months on the sofa, only getting off it to limp upstairs to bed. Fun at first, at the end of the first month I would have given anything to get the cleaner out and give the becrumbed carpet a good seeing-to.
But when I asked at my fun weekly checkups, x rays and needle probes, they said no. They put me on some new drugs and waited until my condition settled before they let me move about again.
Of course the family had helped somewhat, but they had just kept the neccessary things going and the house was deeply untidy and vaguely grubby. I started to clean and then it struck me - why should I, when they didn't care? I was the only idiot who moved everything off a shelf before I cleaned it and put them all back, I was the only person to make a real effort.
So I didn't. To restore it all would have taken more energy than I had (arthritis does tend to sap your energy anyway). And by then I was writing and being published. So it came down to a choice - writing or heavy duty cleaning. I made my choice. The spring cleaning went.
Nobody is dead yet.
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