The Clearout at the End of the Notebook

Rationalising the contents of the little brick sheds. In the opening scenes, a Tennents Lager ashtray hits me soundly on the head. Slapstick or hospital drama. There are boxes on boxes of old branded glassware: some for brands which barely saw the Light; others for beers now handed over, handed on, and handed on. Jeez, I kept a lot of stuff from the job. Mice have been at mostly everything. I do not mind the nibbling; the confetti they’ve made of my memories – but the invisible piss that’d doubtless soaked into it all, I could pass on. A pile grows in the yard where in time I’ll reverse up the truck. Waiting to be loaded for the long ride to the tip. God, I hung on to some crap. A sweetly boxed kit for growing a bonsai is spared. I’ll give it a go and it will be a miracle if it comes to anything. It’s twenty years old before it’s even begun. Has its ki perished? Data cables and connectors from a past life, far planet, dead star, writhe grotesquely in a bag from a bookshop that doesn’t exist. Keys, ridiculously, from a company car; long and green, long gone. Over-complex technologies on the sudden cusp of usefulness. Binned. The council refuse centre is busy with men – for they are all men – bringing and receiving and pointing at various graves. Which they fill. Full.

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About Stevie Mitchell

I come from a long line of cartoons and beer. I was once peed on by a tiger. Hoping the resultant super-powers are yet to come, cos if these are they, then, grrrr....
This entry was posted in Creative Writing, Family History and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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