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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

I had another clear out of my wardrobe tonight, because I put on my "skinny jeans", the jeans I haven't been able to fit in since first year at University, but held on to for the perverse reason that one day it may well be possible that I'd fit in to them again, and they were my very favourite jeans ever and... they don't fit. They're TOO BIG. They're hideously large, in fact. Hanging off me. They look like clown trousers. I should have been doing a happy dance - I'm skinnier than my skinny jeans, for God's sake. But this made me sad.

I'm so very very bad at throwing things out. I'm doing it a bit at a time. All the icky clothes I've held on to for various reasons over the years, that have been sitting in Dublin waiting for my return, lurking like ghosts of wardrobes past. I have one of those brains that immediately imprints situations and emotions on inanimate objects, meaning things are drenched and stained with associations, and to throw them away feels to me like I'm throwing away that moment, that memory. It's ridiculous. It has to stop.

So tonight, among many other bits and bobs, I threw away the following: my skinny jeans, in which I kissed the only boy I kissed in first year of University (yes, Moo, I mean Richard. Shut up.); the shirt I was wearing when I got my tattoo last summer; the top from Bennetton I bought with my first paycheque from the first proper job I got after leaving University; the blue shirt I used to wear to work in Edinburgh on the days I woke up and felt like crying; the hospital scrubs I wore for an entire Girl Guide camp, and also wore every time I helped anyone redecorate.

(In fact, the only thing to survive the cull is the pink t-shirt I was wearing the first time I kissed He Who Only... I don't like that t-shirt, it's rubbish and has a picture of a cat with a bow on it's head, but I can't quite bring myself to chuck it. Not just yet.)

I was tempted just to move all that stuff to the spare room, let it lurk in the wardrobe there for a while, see if I noticed the difference, or the memories started to magically fade, like Michael J Fox's hand in Back To The Future, and then I could run in and rescue them, and it'd all be fine. But then I realised that's a sign of mental illness, and so they're all in an orange bag in the hallway waiting to be picked up by charidee. Yes, even the paint splattered hospital scrubs. Someone will love them, I'm sure.


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