It's my life: Tric Kearney

Clothes our children had grown out of were stored here and pulled out years later to a chorus of thoughts: “Sweet divine, charity wouldn’t take these”

LAST weekend, in a mad burst of energy, I decided to tackle a room in our house where only the brave or demented go. It’s a fine sized room, known laughingly as ‘the back bedroom’.

I say ‘laughingly’ because it contains no bed of any sort but it was used by our children, briefly as a bedroom.

This was the room they happily settled in each night as babies, drifting off to sleep without a bother.

Yes, the very same room that, come midnight, they screamed their head off to get out of, hence the word, ‘briefly’.

Once the time came for the final screamer to move to share a bedroom with her sibling, we dismantled the cot and for a time looked at this empty room and dreamed.

It’s a good size, we said. Just off our bedroom. Perfect for a dressing room.

We nearly exploded with imagined magnificence. In pursuit of our dream, we covered one wall with built-in wardrobes, before deciding that wasn’t enough, and splashing out on a large free-standing wardrobe.

And as we stood back to admire it, the dream died.

For before we had time to fill those wardrobes, they began to fill themselves. Clothes our children had grown out of, were stored there, only to be pulled out three years later to a chorus of thoughts along the line, “Sweet divine, charity wouldn’t take these!”

Coats that had hung six deep downstairs, were moved here, never to be worn again. Soon all hanging space was full.

Where to next? Why above the wardrobe of course. Pictures no longer in favour were placed here by Himself.

When I’d occasionally wonder why, I was told, “That is a perfectly fine picture.”

A set of mugs, broken Christmas decorations and unwanted ornaments were obviously also, “perfectly fine”.

In a bid to make more space for ‘stuff’, we acquired not one but three blanket boxes.

These not only held spare duvets and pillows, so old and stained you’d never dream of lying under them but also dolls, teddies, shoes and whatever else could be squashed in.

Once filled the top of them was perfect storage for all manner of things.

Two guitars, dolls houses, prams, more teddies, cars, and of course the hoover.

Finally, there was only the floor left. No plan was observed in filling this rather necessary area. No edges first and then work your way in.

It was more an, ‘Open the door and feck it in’, approach, which seemed to work quite well for a time until I realised last week that the door no longer opened and the hoover was trapped inside.

It was time to act.

I pushed open that door last Saturday and surveyed the mess, before quickly closing it and imagining if I would prefer to pull my toenails out instead.

As I stood there wondering if one more week would matter, I noticed ‘stuff’ had begun to invade my bedroom.

Another week might prove fatal.

Armed with plastic bags and a ‘don’t mess with me’ attitude I whittled my way through the room, clearing and dumping.

Finally, as night approached I was as good as finished.

Blanket boxes empty. Old furniture, dumped. Bags of soft toys and clothes bagged. Floor, cleared. It was a glorious sight.

I opened and closed the door, because I could, before turning to make my way downstairs.

To my dismay, much of the back bedroom clutter I’d cleared, was now scattered about the landing, and judging by the number of overflowing black sacks present, it would appear as if it’s contents had doubled in size.

Defeated, I picked my way past. Two days later, I continue to negotiate the overflow. No one else seems to have noticed it.