Decluttering

January is a great time to have a sort-out, and re-assess one’s stuff. I seem to be struggling to get going with the concept; looking around at The Shed, you’d think I never throw anything away.

Boy Seymour has no such qualms. At precisely two minutes past eight this morning, he decided to “go through his clothes”. He has never volunteered to do this ever before, and so I was relcutant to discourage the chap.

But why did he choose that exact moment? There was breakfast to be had, socks to be found, teeth to be cursorily brushed and hair to be stylishly ruffled. He simply did not have the time.

“I’m going to sell some of my clothes,” he announced.

“You can’t,” said I. “By the time you have finished with them they are disgusting.”

Harsh. But true.

“But my sister sold some of hers!” He protested.

“Hers are not as manky as yours, darling.”

Wailing and accusations of poor mothering skills followed. 

“But if I sell some, then I can buy new ones!” He was determined. And by eight fifteen, he was waddling around The Shed, arms laden with garments that he was about to drop at my feet in front of the door.

“Please don’t just dump them there!” I urged him, glancing around at the scene of devastation already in evidence after the usual pre-school, shed-dwellers’ “getting ready” chaos. There was crockery lined up on the side, coats littering the floor, beds un-made, pyjamas freshly peeled from bottoms and discarded where they fell – and clothes. Endless frickin’ clothes. Clothes everywhere.

There are no wardrobes in The Shed – only a crude assortment of Tesco trays, harbouring The Four Little Seymours’ attire. When said Seymours are out, I tidy the trays. When said Seymours are in, I think they must detonate textile bombs. If they want something out, the whole lot emerges. So, I suppose I should be happy that Boy wants to sell his clothes. It’s initiative, I suppose. But what the poor bugger doesn’t seem to realise is that all of his clothes were third hand before he got them. Third hand, intact and clean, I might add. But then, the inevitable happens. After five minutes’ wear, Boy’ll have found guinea pig hair, toothpaste, some Sussex mud, chocolate spread and invariably some sinister unidentifyable gunk, and smeared the lot over himself.  He is simply incapable of staying neat and tidy. He’s a muck magnet, and Mini Seymour’s just as bad.

So, at eight twenty two this morning, when I saw my son folding his rejected clothing beautifully (for the first time ever!) and then stealing my phone to take pictures of it, presumably to post on an online market place somewhere, my heart sank a bit. He genuinely thinks he can make money this way! The poor, deluded urchin. 

This afternoon, I plan to put a few of my own bits on ebay, entitled “Bundle of Trousers For Lanky Person.” Maybe, whilst I am at it, I should list another bundle, entitled “Grubby Garments Rejected by Muck-Magnet Entrepreneur”…

I wonder if there will be any takers?