I faced up to the fact that my attempt to channel a New York loft vibe was just never going to work in a tiny, 160 year old cottage in Wales.
Every corner was stuffed with random artwork, quirky finds, mismatched crockery, a growing Teenager and a cat. Something had to give. So I put the cat up for adoption. No, not really, but I wanted a clear-out, a fresh start, preferably without resorting to hiring a chanting shaman to wander round the house burning bundles of sage.
Yesterday, my ruthless mission was completed. Every single item in the house has been thoroughly assessed – keep, store or chuck. That sewing machine I bought with the whimsical notion of spending delightful evenings running up curtains, Cath Kidston duvet covers and cute little jam pot covers? Donated to a friend. The crafting glue gun stays however, for the sheer comedy factor. Hours of fun guaranteed.
My books were culled, boxed up and stored in the attic. I took down half my pictures and paintings, ornaments were decimated and I got rid of the sofa in my bedroom. I rifled through my wardrobe, trying on everything and parting company with all the clothes I was keeping just in case I magically lost three stone. If that miracle ever did occur, believe me, I would write begging letters to Gok Wan, pleading with him to help me find my new fashion direction.
MS has been a great opportunity to audit my entire life from top to bottom, but it’s not always been as much fun as deciding whether a ‘novelty’ toothbrush holder can stay or go. My career path has altered drastically, cherished friends have disappeared overnight and I’m still finding my way in this brave new world. From the depths of despair though, my life is being rebuilt and I won’t be dragging junk along for the ride, both metaphorically and physically.
If only my emotions could be sorted through so systematically, but in the meantime, I am still undecided. Should I still have a collection of ransom note magnets on the fridge? At my age?