Taking back control one basket (case) at a time

(If only the price of these had been £16.90)

Do you ever go to Ikea, see the drawer organisers and think, that’s it, if I buy these then my life will be SORTED. Well I had a similar epiphany in Homebase on Friday morning when I saw their basket selection. It was a fine and extensive one. Oh the joy, thought I. These are exactly what I require for the unit I pilfered from the skip. (In truth it never actually made the skip, I got it before it was turfed in). It has now become LSB’s stuff holder, for all his sporty accoutrements. He spied some storage boxes emblazoned with the Union Jack. “I think those are the ones for me” he commented wryly. “Oh yes”, I agree. “We could call it ‘a very Brexit cupboard.’ I bet Nigel Farage has one.” We pondered whether Tricolor boxes were also available, contemplating that a mixture of the two would reflect our cross community status as a couple. We bought a rake of baskets and I got to sorting out the minutiae of our lives, with Radio 6 in the background.


What with the trauma (and I use not this word lightly, moving was horrific, with builder’s dust and mouldy curtains and a worrying discovery of mouse droppings) I haven’t been able to care too deeply about world affairs. Back in June when the appalling Brexit die was cast I was grief stricken. A friend put it well when she compared it to being heartbroken. You’d motor on as before then remember what happened and feel devastated all over again. She’s also married to a French man so probably feels the implications more acutely. Her husband is an excellent runner, to whom I refer as ‘The Flying Frenchman’. I can just hear Sammy Wilson: “these French ones, coming over here, winning our races.”


Anyway. I still feel very sad, and angry, especially because I feel we look like a bunch of arseholes to the rest of Europe. But as in back in June, I reckon just keep doing the good things. The day after Brexit there was the Beat Festival in Ormeau Park. It was like the Rainbow Nation: I wanted to phone Farage and say “Get your smug ale-swigging arse over here.” After all the shite the people of Belfast have endured just look at this carnival. There was no evidence of a small minded, embittered people. And the sun shone and the beat went on as if to say you can’t keep the goodness down. We’ll keep going and we’ll do it better and fuck your Article 50.


Incidentally, we cleared enough clutter to welcome our Belgian student to our home last night. After a mammoth effort by friends and family our living space was cleared (and cleaned) sufficiently to enjoy our first meal at the table, complete with small children burping and wandering off mid-meal. “They are very tired and ‘très excités’ I explained to excuse them, but I bet they’ll do the same tonight. Little buggers.


I’ll post a few photos once more detritus has been binned. Watch this space.

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