Two solid weeks of sifting, shoving, lifting, dismantling, sorting and rumbling through the mess that is my house.
No posts. Zilch views.
Grumbles from acquaintances about unfulfilled promises to read their writings.
I am not, after all, as it turns out, Mrs Hinch! So who the heck’s going to be interested in my cleaning efforts?
But the truth is, for those who are or are not interested, that preparing for the imminent arrival of the annual Christmas guest – the Mother – is as arduous and all-consuming as the task of writing a bestseller. If one starts on the job, one has no choice but to carry on until the job is finished. Just as, if I had interrupted my book writing to do a spot of cleaning, had I interrupted my cleaning to do a spot of reading, or writing, or even weeing, I would have been doomed to a Christmas day sitting in the midst of this, and accompanied by the tutting sound effects known to most people as a Mother.
Hence I ploughed on, and on and on. Even in the knowledge that as fast as I worked, there were others working just as fast to thwart my efforts, to outpace me and undo me, to startle me with the presentation of a fresh mound of assorted junk, strategically placed at every turn of a corner.
Still, against all of the odds, rooms were made habitable, Mother arrived, and Christmas morning came. It was time.
Time to get out and leave them all to it.
Who needs a tidy cave when one can just hop on out across the plains of Chilton and immerse oneself into the wayside? Why waste money on a Christmas tree, when it’s all out there, just metres beyond our doorsteps?
I can’t go far, as Hubby’s on the case with the Christmas Dinner, but I almost make it as far as St. Mary’s Church at Chilton, and it’s enough.
Enough to soak up some sunlight to feel myself lifted out of the slumber that is Christmas. Enough to transport me back into a land of possibilities. A land in which it’s okay to just to be okay with being the okay sort of a possibility of a person that is me.
But then I remember. This little bit of land with it’s magical powers of restorative wellbeing is due, not for restoration, to its former use as a medieval village, or as a WWII airfield, or even just to be allowed to continue au natural! Anything wild that has dared to take root in Chilton, is to be uprooted and destroyed, turned into piles of rubble and swept aside, as the land is dug into and the cement poured in.
Another red-brick estate rises from the dirt to wipe out our local history and wildlife.
Uplifted and dragged back down, I retrace my steps, savouring every last moment of every last view of Chilton, before the time comes when I have to duck my head down, retreat back into my cliff-top cave, and confront the rubble being recreated by my own demolition squad.
But first …
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, 25th December, 2019