When I lived in India and Sri Lanka I virtually lived out of a suitcase, and when I came back to the UK I pretty much continued to do so, but I was in denial. I had put a whole load of junk in storage in a corner of my brother’s barn. It was “out of sight, out of mind”. But it’s finally caught up with me. It’s now in my room and in a shared part of the house, and we’re all tripping over it.

I’ve told you some of this already, haven’t I? How could I forget. Well, the paperwork I mentioned in that post has been well and truly shredded,  and is now behind me. But I’ve got so much more to deal with. I suppose because it all tells a story I feel attached to it but it HAS to go. The vast majority, at least. Old tools, old books, DIY stuff, papers, junk. Things that might have come in handy one day. Everything a reminder.

Next up is a load of old school reports from my days at Farnham Grammar School, 1968 to 1974. Reading through them reminds me just how poor I was academically. Most comments can be summarised as “Tries hard, achieves little”.

My favourite teacher was Mr EW Godsil, forever “Chubba”. He was a kindly old guy, always encouraging and never disparaging. Yet he could command order in a classroom with a glance. I remember him having nicknames for many of the boys and perhaps that’s part of what endeared him to everyone.

Classes of 30. Double rows of empty inkwells. “Thoughtful, serious boy. Pleasing progress. EWG.”

At age 13:
English: “A serious worker but he is too slow thinking and writing.” GB
History: “Works hard but has not made much progress.” GLC
Chemistry: Signs of improvement” TRC
PE: “He usually tries hard, but should also realise this subject is to be enjoyed.” MRT

Always “he”.

These insightful gems sit in front of me, evoking memories and gathering tea stains.

I’ve recently brought a lot of belongings out from storage in my brother’s barn so that I can sort through them, disposing of anything unnecessary and keeping the essential. It’s been there since I went to India – after four years just how essential can any of it be, really? Well, it’s more difficult than you might imagine. Some of it has sentimental value and some, well, it might have been useful if my life had taken me elsewhere. Anyway, that’s all another story. The point is that today was meant to be a day for sorting paperwork but, somehow, all I’ve managed to do is shift it from one pile to another. I have to deal with it and I MUST get rid of it but so far I’ve failed.

The collection I particularly wanted to deal with concerned a road accident I had ten years ago. Two box-files-worth. Photographs, police reports, interviews with consultants, appointments with surgeons, medical reports, interminable letters exchanged with solicitors. I hadn’t read the witness statements for years. Probably not since I first got them, actually, and maybe not even then, and I suppose it was a fatal mistake to sit down and start reading them now. I learnt one thing, which was that fire extinguishers had been used on my car. Before the accident I’d imagined in nightmares the horror of being trapped in a burning car. Perhaps it was the thought that a car battery is like a bomb, so much stored energy, just waiting to cause and feed a fire. Maybe it was a good thing then, imagining this, and knowing what to do: even in my delirious state in that smoke-filled car I knew I had to tell someone to disconnect the battery. They’d tried and, when they couldn’t, they’d used the extinguishers. I was so incredibly, incredibly lucky that it’d all happened outside a small industrial yard, at a time when there were still people around. I don’t want to think…

And then I read the lies of that woman. That drunken woman. Who, despite nearly causing my death, blamed it on me. Despite the witnesses, the reports, the breathalyser results… and there’s more… but what’s the point.

All this paper is like a trigger. It’s like the battery – it’s feeding my anger and frustration and my inability to forget. The memories are bad enough already.

So.

This morning I’d thought that I’d sit down and sort out what I needed to keep, have it scanned and then bin the lot. Now, I think I’ll just bin it. What could I possibly ever need? I am as I am now – I don’t need all that history. In fact it needs erasing. Expunging. Forever.

One good thing has come out of  sorting out my junk – yesterday I rediscovered my little stone Buddha. There’s something serene about him – he keeps me calm. So when I just looked up, wondering which photo I should put with this post, he provided the answer. I’m pretty sure he’d confirm too, if he could, that I should chuck that paperwork!