Our house is creaking.
Not because of the warped floorboards or the delicate steps you take when drunk as you climb the stairs, but creaking – space invading.
It’s because of the kids. No, wait. Strike that. It’s because of the crap they bring in to the house. The things they collect as they breeze through their lives.
Where once a covermount – the CD paid for by the DJs and labels we loved on DJ Mag, Mixmag or Muzik were welcomed in to our lives – now the kids bring pre-broken shooters, characters or slingers from comics and kids magazines in to our reducing space.
Then they just sit there. Sit at the end of the tables where you have no idea what to do with them. What is the appropriate amount of time from something appearing before it disappears into the bin, the recycling – removed under the cover of darkness into the night.
So today I had one of those days. Where the rubber bullets of hate – created by adults without kids – that came on a magazine, in a tin, from a box of the latest creation of must have toss; went in to the bin.
No discussion, no conversation – it went away with prayers and fingers crossed that no one, no small person misses it.
Tonight our house creaks slightly less.
On Monday, as I tackle the mountain of tat in the spare bedroom, our house will no longer sigh under the weight of the years of refusing to throw things away. So much so that a child will walk into the bedroom and question; to doubt – but there will be no answers, only lies: “What teddy, I can’t remember that teddy.”
Next time your child stands in front of a magazine rack or toy shop and says “can I have that shite?”…. Take your lead from Grange Hill.
Just say no!