memorable clutter
“Mum why don’t you get rid of this stuff?”
Fran edged her way past the filing cabinet in the hallway. She rolled her eyes at the over-stuffed drawers just about containing their long past ‘best before’ papers.
“Where are you?” she called at the junction to the stairs and passage to the kitchen. Neither way allowed for free-flowing movement.
“Up here, luv.” Came the muffled reply.
Fran made her way carefully up the narrow staircase. She pitied the flying ducks hemmed in by photos, paintings and prints of anything but a nice lake for them to skim on. To her right? She had to be extra careful, for every other step was a display unit for various ornaments such as: a Toby mug, a Caithness paper weight, a porcelain figurine of a beautiful ballerina eternally holding a swan pose, and so on. What these items had in common was a great potential to fall off the edge if accidentally nudged. Otherwise, Fran conceded that they did look good from the hallway below with the spindles perfectly framing each piece.
“I’m in here.”
Fran popped her head round the door to the office.
“Hello, dear.” Under a messy ash blonde bun her mother swivelled round, reached out and greeted her daughter with a big hug and kiss. Space was tight given the floor to ceiling stack of plastic containers and cardboard boxes along one wall. This left just enough room to squeeze in a desk and computer though not enough daylight to enter the room.
“With you in a minute”, she said swivelling back to the screen. “Your Auntie Sandra and I have been talking on Skype. She sends her love.”
Fran backed out of the room just a tad too quickly and yelped at the sharp pain in her thigh.
“Mind the dressing table, dear.” Her Mum called over her shoulder.
“Mum, the landing is not a place for a dressing table. Why didn’t you get rid of it when they did your room?”
The sound of exasperation in response was the sign not to labour the point. So, she limped into her mother’s bedroom while gingerly rubbing her own sore point. Fran was now sitting on her mother’s bed staring at the wardrobes, their doors unable to close properly for the clothes spilling out of them.
“Two wardrobes”, she thought to herself, “and it’s still not enough.”
***
“Hmm...that was delicious wasn’t it!” They were dining al fresco at Luigi’s. Fran’s Mum was smiling appreciatively as she sat back in her chair, her face turned towards the sun. She held aloft her glass of Chianti:
“Salute!”
Fran admired her mother’s chic ensemble, all the more for quickly putting it together from the jumble of clothes in her wardrobe. She made a mental note to review her own wardrobe with its lack of imagination. She seemed incapable of thinking outside her ‘uniform’ of jeans and chambray shirt. Like now.
“It’s so nice to get out of the house…I can’t breathe with all the clutter”, her mother was saying.
“Or move.” Fran added.
“There’s no need to be sarcastic. I know it’s messy but when I have time I’ll sort it out.”
“Mum you’ve been saying that for the last how many years? You won’t even have friends round for coffee, let alone lunch thanks to the clutter on the dining table!”
“I know, but I have such a full and active social life…much more fulfilling than wading through junk. Look, I know you mean well, Fran, but I wish you wouldn’t worry…you should be enjoying your own life. Ah here’s dessert.”
It was enough to change the subject to the joys of eating real Italian Tiramisu.
***
“Come in, come in!” Aubrey, a fellow artisan, was always so welcoming. “We’ll go straight into the kitchen.”
They sat down at a huge oak table. Almost immediately Aubrey started to apologise for the state of the kitchen; for the table looking dirty despite being cleaned. If anything Fran admired it’s rustic look, perfect for the indoor picnic that her dear friend had prepared and all washed down with a good glug of Chardonnay.
“Well if the table’s so bad, why don’t you get rid of it?” Fran enquired.
“Memories.” was the prompt reply “Lots of wonderful memories exist around this table: celebrations, discussions - some heated, meals of course, counselling, etc., etc.”
Fran was intrigued.
“Every time I de-clutter”, Aubrey explained, “if I no longer feel a connection with an item then out it goes.”
Fran thought about her mother’s house; her own for that matter.
“Look around you,” Aubrey said with a sweep of her hand, “What do you see? No don’t answer that I’ll tell you: clutter, but it’s organised clutter – it’s meant to be there.”
“You see,” she leaned forward as if she was about to reveal a big secret, “the key is to de-clutter regularly, once every few months say, but keep it low level – to a minimum.”
She offered further advice:
“When your mum’s ready she’ll start de-cluttering bit by bit. You’ll see.”
Clutter, organised or not, Aubrey had certainly given Fran something to think about.
She arrived home and stood in the doorway, greeted as usual by silent white walls. Minimalism she had called it. But now she shivered in the cold, sterile surroundings of her own creation. She realised that she’d gone too far in her determination to avoid clutter in her own home. Fran knew then that what she wanted was warmth, colour, memories; but where to start? She decided that Dulux would help her add colour to the canvas; she’d pull her own memories out of storage: various items hidden away in cupboards for the sake of tidiness … blandness more like.
“Be positive.” she told herself. “I shall artfully display them, and…” She picked up the phone.
“Hello Mum … any family treasures that you want to keep in the family … I’ve got space here for them. When you’re ready.”
©Danielle Chinnon 2017
Fran edged her way past the filing cabinet in the hallway. She rolled her eyes at the over-stuffed drawers just about containing their long past ‘best before’ papers.
“Where are you?” she called at the junction to the stairs and passage to the kitchen. Neither way allowed for free-flowing movement.
“Up here, luv.” Came the muffled reply.
Fran made her way carefully up the narrow staircase. She pitied the flying ducks hemmed in by photos, paintings and prints of anything but a nice lake for them to skim on. To her right? She had to be extra careful, for every other step was a display unit for various ornaments such as: a Toby mug, a Caithness paper weight, a porcelain figurine of a beautiful ballerina eternally holding a swan pose, and so on. What these items had in common was a great potential to fall off the edge if accidentally nudged. Otherwise, Fran conceded that they did look good from the hallway below with the spindles perfectly framing each piece.
“I’m in here.”
Fran popped her head round the door to the office.
“Hello, dear.” Under a messy ash blonde bun her mother swivelled round, reached out and greeted her daughter with a big hug and kiss. Space was tight given the floor to ceiling stack of plastic containers and cardboard boxes along one wall. This left just enough room to squeeze in a desk and computer though not enough daylight to enter the room.
“With you in a minute”, she said swivelling back to the screen. “Your Auntie Sandra and I have been talking on Skype. She sends her love.”
Fran backed out of the room just a tad too quickly and yelped at the sharp pain in her thigh.
“Mind the dressing table, dear.” Her Mum called over her shoulder.
“Mum, the landing is not a place for a dressing table. Why didn’t you get rid of it when they did your room?”
The sound of exasperation in response was the sign not to labour the point. So, she limped into her mother’s bedroom while gingerly rubbing her own sore point. Fran was now sitting on her mother’s bed staring at the wardrobes, their doors unable to close properly for the clothes spilling out of them.
“Two wardrobes”, she thought to herself, “and it’s still not enough.”
***
“Hmm...that was delicious wasn’t it!” They were dining al fresco at Luigi’s. Fran’s Mum was smiling appreciatively as she sat back in her chair, her face turned towards the sun. She held aloft her glass of Chianti:
“Salute!”
Fran admired her mother’s chic ensemble, all the more for quickly putting it together from the jumble of clothes in her wardrobe. She made a mental note to review her own wardrobe with its lack of imagination. She seemed incapable of thinking outside her ‘uniform’ of jeans and chambray shirt. Like now.
“It’s so nice to get out of the house…I can’t breathe with all the clutter”, her mother was saying.
“Or move.” Fran added.
“There’s no need to be sarcastic. I know it’s messy but when I have time I’ll sort it out.”
“Mum you’ve been saying that for the last how many years? You won’t even have friends round for coffee, let alone lunch thanks to the clutter on the dining table!”
“I know, but I have such a full and active social life…much more fulfilling than wading through junk. Look, I know you mean well, Fran, but I wish you wouldn’t worry…you should be enjoying your own life. Ah here’s dessert.”
It was enough to change the subject to the joys of eating real Italian Tiramisu.
***
“Come in, come in!” Aubrey, a fellow artisan, was always so welcoming. “We’ll go straight into the kitchen.”
They sat down at a huge oak table. Almost immediately Aubrey started to apologise for the state of the kitchen; for the table looking dirty despite being cleaned. If anything Fran admired it’s rustic look, perfect for the indoor picnic that her dear friend had prepared and all washed down with a good glug of Chardonnay.
“Well if the table’s so bad, why don’t you get rid of it?” Fran enquired.
“Memories.” was the prompt reply “Lots of wonderful memories exist around this table: celebrations, discussions - some heated, meals of course, counselling, etc., etc.”
Fran was intrigued.
“Every time I de-clutter”, Aubrey explained, “if I no longer feel a connection with an item then out it goes.”
Fran thought about her mother’s house; her own for that matter.
“Look around you,” Aubrey said with a sweep of her hand, “What do you see? No don’t answer that I’ll tell you: clutter, but it’s organised clutter – it’s meant to be there.”
“You see,” she leaned forward as if she was about to reveal a big secret, “the key is to de-clutter regularly, once every few months say, but keep it low level – to a minimum.”
She offered further advice:
“When your mum’s ready she’ll start de-cluttering bit by bit. You’ll see.”
Clutter, organised or not, Aubrey had certainly given Fran something to think about.
She arrived home and stood in the doorway, greeted as usual by silent white walls. Minimalism she had called it. But now she shivered in the cold, sterile surroundings of her own creation. She realised that she’d gone too far in her determination to avoid clutter in her own home. Fran knew then that what she wanted was warmth, colour, memories; but where to start? She decided that Dulux would help her add colour to the canvas; she’d pull her own memories out of storage: various items hidden away in cupboards for the sake of tidiness … blandness more like.
“Be positive.” she told herself. “I shall artfully display them, and…” She picked up the phone.
“Hello Mum … any family treasures that you want to keep in the family … I’ve got space here for them. When you’re ready.”
©Danielle Chinnon 2017