As you read this column, I will be in the throes of one of life’s simple pleasures – moving house. Or, as I like to call it, the Great Cull of 2016.
We have collected some serious detritus in 10 years of occupying the one residence. If we put it all on the front lawn, our neighbours would think they’d died and gone to Chadstone Shopping Centre.
We were going to have a garage sale but it would have gone for as long as a John Farnham farewell tour.
The worst part is most of it belongs to one person. We’ve enrolled her in Shopaholics Anonymous but she keeps skipping meetings because an eBay auction is about to finish.
The BF and my youngest daughter joined forces to clean out the garden shed – until they declared it the backyard version of a clown car and needed a Bex and a good lie down.
Our household rubbish bin became so full that it finally rebelled.
I was wheeling it to the kerb when it went rogue, tipped backwards, knocked me onto the neighbour’s fence and landed fair square on top of me.
If anyone was watching, I would have looked like an pinned insect under a microscope, with just my face, hands and feet flailing around.
I had to be rescued by one of my kids – once she’d finished putting the footage on every available social media because I was a “monty to go viral”.
But we’ve taken a Darwinism approach to clearing out our household goods. One rust spot on a pair of tongs and it’s gone. One crack in a wooden spoon and it’s hasta la vista baby. And don’t get me started on my wardrobe – if it was designed in the 80s, 90s, or noughties it was see you later alligator.
Unfortunately it’s left me with very little to wear so next item on the agenda is some serious clothes shopping!