I've Started so I'll Finish

Did you ever start something, and then go too far, and end up sorry you ever started it?

I’ve had a couple of days off work this week, and obviously, being Irish, assumed it would be lashing rain and that I should take the opportunity to sort out our box room.

His Nibs and I live in a three bedroomed house.  Happily, so far, we still sleep in the same room (keep your fingers crossed for us).  The second biggest bedroom is the guest room, referred to, like in everyone’s house, as the spare room.

It’s odd, how it’s called the spare room.  Because to be honest, it’s anything but spare.  We couldn’t do without it.  It houses the out of season clothes, the fancy weddingy type outfits that I only ever wear once and don’t have room for in my wardrobe but keep “just in case”, and my entire shoe and handbag collection, which is a bit of a feat for any wardrobe, to be honest. 

It holds some books, the director’s chairs we drag out when we have more than four people at our kitchen table, and the empty suitcases.  Now how is that spare?  If we got a lodger into that room, we’d have to build an extension just to hold all my stuff.

Anyway, because we’re very anti-social, and the box room is actually the size of a box, we decided when we moved in not to put a bed in it.  We (I) decided it should be the “book room”.  We bought  a few bookcases, and I started making free in Waterstone’s and Chapters of Parnell Street in a way I never could have when we lived in the one bedroomed flat in Dublin.

Giving a room a name like the book room is an absolute fool’s game.  I know every box room ends up containing a load of crap, but if you actually call it the book room, and the walls aren’t entirely lined with books, it’s open season on the room.  Eventually we ended up with no floor space at all.

 

About two years ago, this room was equipped with a desk and a nice leather chair.  It was now the writing room – have you ever heard anything so pretentious?

It was one of those “if I build it they will come” moments.  I thought if I had a writing room, I’d be worn out coping with all the ideas I’d have for the Great Irish Novel. 

Putting the desk against a blank wall was a terrible idea.  Sitting down, with no ideas whatsoever, and both literally and figuratively facing a blank wall is nonsense. 

So this week I decided I’d re-arrange the room, so that the desk faced the window.  In the same way as facing a blank wall left me devoid of inspiration, I assumed that facing out into the world would lead to a world of ideas and creativity.

When I decided to sort out the book room, I decided I’d allow myself a full day to get through all the books. 

I’m such a moron.  I thought once the books were re-arranged, the work would be done.  There was to be three piles of books .  Books for the charity shop, books that would stay because I love them so much I need to have them to hand, and thirdly books I love but am not going to read again soon because I have them on the Kindle, or I’ve  just read them, and that I don’t want to part with.  These books were to be put in the attic.

His Nibs thinks this is a stupid idea.  He reckons anything that goes into the attic is really in a holding area.  That everything up there is on its way to the landfill, but I haven’t made my peace with it yet. 

I begged to differ, citing the Christmas decorations as an example, but he says that doesn’t count, because anyone with a bit of sense would put the decorations in the landfill and stop trying to turn our lives into Miracle on 34^th Street for two weeks of every year.

I also decided to put the CDs in the attic, since I only ever use the iPod.  Just so you know, CDs are ridiculously heavy and difficult to get into a tiny attic.

Now, I started off great.  I started flinging books into piles on Tuesday morning with some gusto.

The trouble is, the weather’s fabulous, and I know I won’t be getting any more days off to enjoy the sun.  So basically I’ve been running up and down the stairs and in and out of the garden caught between my conscience and my desire for a golden glow.  Usually armed with a book, allegedly so that I could decide which pile it belonged in.

So I made a bit of a production of the work.  His Nibs is an easy going soul, and doesn’t like this kind of carry on.  He just likes everything to be left alone.  Because usually, when things aren’t left alone, he’s dragged into a load of work.  Work that he doesn’t want to do, and doesn't approve of.

So he wasn’t delighted when he returned from work yesterday to find the entire floor of the spare room covered in books, bags and boxes.  And two empty bookcases on the landing.

There was a suitcase and about six bags of books in the hall, ready for their transfer to the charity shop. 

Of course it’s only when the sun goes down that I’m really able to get into the swing of the thing.  Because the garden is full of moths and loses its lustre,  and once His Nibs gets home the television moves from dreadful daytime TV to intelligent documentaries, so there’s nothing to distract me.

I got the books and the notebooks back onto their freshly dusted shelves yesterday.  I became so enthusiastic that I decided I wouldn’t be able to sleep until it was all dealt with.  At four o’clock this morning, His Nibs appeared on the landing and strongly suggested that I go to feck to bed and stop making noise.

He didn’t agree with my suggestion that now that he was up he may as well hop up into the attic there and then, to deposit the bags and boxes standing in the spare room.

I had to go into the attic myself this morning.  Well, I didn’t have to.  But sadly the enthusiasm had continued, and I was inflicted with an “I’ve started so I’ll finish” type mentality.  Anyway, I didn’t want to be tripping over the attic stuff for months while I begged (nagged) His Nibs to get on with it.

 That yellow insulation stuff is incredibly itchy and annoying.

This is exactly what I mean.  The very odd time I take a notion, I tend to throw myself into it with far too much enthusiasm. 

A quick tidy up, maybe a belt of the hoover, and a half hearted re-shuffling of the furniture would have completed the work.  But I had to go all out of course, hang new stuff on the walls, get rid of half the contents of the room, stuff ever more rubbish in the attic.
I absolutely hate the part in the middle.  You know when you think you’re doing great, then you look around and discover two rooms and the landing have been rendered unusable, and there’s absolutely no way back?  That you’ve gone too far and you have to finish the stupid dusty carry on?

I’m proud to say that I finished the job.

Fair enough, my car is currently out of bounds, there’s barely enough room for me in there.  I look forward to driving around the local towns tomorrow, looking for charity shops and deciding which is the most worthy of my fabulous donation. 

Happily, the cleaning lady is coming.  She doesn’t like working when I’m in the house.  Mainly, I suppose, because I follow her around and ask her stupid questions, and never know the answer to her more intelligent questions like “Is there any hot water?”  Also, my old trouble re-surfaces.  I can’t stop talking to her, and trying to talk her into stopping for coffee, when all she wants to do is get the whole thing over with and go home to her family.

I’ve already texted her to tell her that the impediment to cleaning the boxroom has now been removed, and to feel free to go on in and hoover and dust in there, just like every other room .  I also hinted that I’d like a bit of praise for my good work.

I’m sure she was delighted to hear from me.