marie Kondo

Here’s the Sour-bike. You may have seen it of late, chained forlornly outside the QFT or Kaffe-O, or the Errigle. It should have a sign, ‘Abandoned by one hapless owner’. Since LSB and I started the building work, we’ve left everything at our behinds, principally our keys. I’ve been pedalling off without a care, popping on the lock before realizing I’ve no means with which to unlock it and get home.

That is how stress manifests itself with me- I lose stuff. While at Queens I lost my bank card so many times I was on first name terms with the staff from Lost and Stolen at Nationwide. LSB clearly suffers from the same condition, since his set of keys were left on Air Coach to Dublin at some point over the marathon weekend. On Monday the hole in the wall swallowed my card while I buggered about with my phone, and later on we mislaid the gas card for the flat. “You are f**king kidding me”, sighed LSB: he thought his days of pay-as-you-go amenities were long gone. It was cold. It was wet. And it took us 2 hours and much aggravation before heat was restored and tempers soothed. “Don’t even think about coming home without wine,” said LSB between gritted teeth, on my third foray to the shop. Thank God for the quality selection at the Vineyard.

Next I mislaid the remaining key for our family car which I needed to take the kids to Bangor. I was like a creature demented- there was no way I missing my mum’s mince. A mother on a mission for mince- it may sound ridiculous, but the thing is, my version resembles Victorian gruel, whereas mum performs some form of alchemy with meat, tomatoes and Worcester sauce, transforming mere ground beef into an epicurean delight. Luckily, I’m on good terms with the nursery next door so the boss leant me car seats to shove into the other motor. Thus I wasn’t denied the simple pleasures of a dinner and an infant free hour while mum dutifully played ‘shops’ and painted with the girls. The Wise Old Elf came in from an afternoon quiz, and put on his party piece- ‘the naughty dinosaur’ where he scarpers around after the kids and they shriek and hide and I drink a cup of tea in a different room, far, far away, wishing it was wine but making do. The key turned up in the one coat pocket I hadn’t checked the next day.

It’s all made me think: when I was at a work I was stressed out and demented, and though freed from its shackles, I’m still a blundering idiot. Mind you, it runs in the family. The Wise Old Elf lost his wallet last week too. After ransacking the house and pestering half the shopkeepers in Bangor he found it lying in a pile of crap at the bottom of his wardrobe, having fallen out of a hip pocket. It wouldn’t happen to Marie Kondo. The chucking out recommences tomorrow…..

It seems to be very much a first-world problem to be bemoaning the amount of stuff we accumulate. People speak of Marie Kondo in deferential tones; there’s hardly been a women’s magazine without a feature on how to ‘declutter your life’ and in doing so find health, wealth and happiness. As I have previously mentioned, friends of mine have bought her book and successfully parted with a third of their belongings and claim to be feeling the better for it. So I buy the book, but feck me, I’m bored. And frustrated. Poor wee Marie Kondo; I mean why were social services never involved? This is a young girl, a middle child obviously short of attention, who shunned socialising entirely to spend hours upon hours, sorting out the contents of drawers and cupboards. I mean would her parents never just have taken her to the park, arranged a play date or at the very least have sat her down in front of the telly with a packet of Tayto or a Happy Meal? (or seaweed crisps and smiley sushi or whatever constitutes a kids’ treat in Japan). There has to be some form of OCD or anxiety disorder there. At one point she is ‘almost in tears’ when she discovers a slimy residue, not only on the bottom of her shower gel but also on the base of the wire rack on which it sat. This is referred to as the ‘disgusting slime episode.’ God, that must have been horrific. My heart goes out to her.

I mean, I accept, I should hoover my house more frequently. Maybe even reacquaint myself with a mop. And I need to re-evaluate my relationship with some dresses, which, for the sake of decency should never see the light of day again. But as for apologising to my house for the clip of it, or feeling sorry for the socks that I’ve had the temerity to pair together, in a ball, well I draw the line at this point. I reckon there are enough people in this world to whom I may owe an apology, without having to start with my undergarments.

I had the good fortune to tune into Radio 4 last week and catch a snippet of John Le Carré’s biography. In it he mentioned his inspiration for the character Tessa Quayle in ‘The Constant Gardener’. This was a feisty French woman who overcame an abusive childhood and addiction to be the saviour of countless refugee and displaced children in places as diverse as Cambodia and the Congo, before her untimely death in Kosovo in the nineties. She also sounded like pure craic. As I listened, in awe at her courage and indomitable spirit, I thought, why have I never heard of this person before? And then, why the fuck are we all worshipping at the alter of Marie-bloody-Kondo, who is famous for her organisational skills and innovative folding technique? Was she standing in the French embassy in Phnom Penn, facing down officials while corralling orphans onto a plane to safety? What are we thinking?

But back up a minute, this is the world we live in. It is a consumerist society and we’re all guilty of getting our kicks from popping into the House of Fraser and doing a gleeful jig when we see the Ted Baker stuff is on sale. But since reading the ‘Joy of Tidying’ and ‘Stuffocation’ by James Wallman, I’ve definitely been a bit more circumspect with my shopping habits. I’ve bought less and I’ve given away more. A start-up toddler group has benefitted from a large pile of toys which were annoying the like clean out of me. My friends have inundated the charity shops in South Belfast with bags of clothes and books, and they’re never done firing cheques off to Oxfam and Unicef. It’s okay to take advice on how to live better and more comfortably, and these days that means reducing what we have. And if it takes reading what a certain, slightly sanctimonious lady suggests to propel us into action, then so be it.

Honest to God, the things you will do to get out of writing. I’ve read countless articles about freelancers who work from home and admit to wiling away hours on social media or having the tidiest Marie-Kondo style cupboards and beautifully empty laundry bins. They will iron pants and towels and the cat if it stops long enough, just to put off getting behind the screen and typing.

I’ve just experienced such a moment myself. I went for a quick pee there and stared at the new tiled floor and thought, “That could do with a quare scrub. I don’t think the mop’s going to cut it; this is a down on your hands and knees job.” Oooh er, that sounds as if I’m contemplating something much more lewd than a floor job. God that sounds even worse. PLEASE don’t let the mother be reading this one or there’ll be another irate phone call from a pensioner.

It’s an opportune moment for such cleaning tasks because LSB is in Dublin drinking post marathon pints and enjoying listening to people commiserate with him after he took powerful cramps at mile eighteen and had to hobble round the remaining eight in a terrible state. Well, IMHO if you will go running twenty-six miles you’re asking for a world of trouble. It’s really as well he’s down there with like-minded folks since I’m stuck here with a sinus infection and after entertaining youngsters all day (poorly, I might add) I wouldn’t be the most sympathetic to his plight.

As I was saying, this would be a good time to get a-scrubbing because the children are now, mercifully asleep so won’t be smearing the floor with dirt from their little trotters, and LSB isn’t here to wander in still wearing his trainers. I tried to implement a ‘no shoes indoors’ policy and I wasn’t even mocked, just downright ignored. I swear to God, we had the lovely new carpet in a day, a fecking day, and your man comes in from a run round the forest, not even the track, and straight up the stairs he goes, leaving bits of damp grass and dirt and f**k knows what all over the joint. I was none too pleased. And you can say nothing, for all you get is “What? All I did was come the stairs to get showered!” “Yes, in your dirty bogging shoes ON MY NEW CARPET!! “Sure it’ll be covered in juice and biscuits in no time,” says he, by way of an excuse. Well I’m not fussy about the juice and biscuits. What I am fussy about is microscopic bits of dog shit because those dogs run amok in Belvoir forest and I’ve enough to contend with without getting the Dettol out and start into that level of cleaning of an evening. Except maybe if I’m supposed to be writing. Then maybe I might welcome the diversion.

I can’t get the floor out of my head now, I’m away to give it a quick once over with the mop, as a kind of compromise.

(And I don’t really mean that runners; you know I think you’re all fantastic really, especially those doing it for charity. Great lads, the lot of ye.)