Colm O'Regan: One of my life goals is getting rid of old photos with my resting bitch face
Life goals: there are different types. When people ask about what I’d like to achieve before I die, I suppose I have a few cliched goals: To have done my best to help my family be happy and fulfilled, to feel I’ve left this planet having tried to do right and to have gained respect in the columnist community for the truth I speak to Power, or at least the truthful message I left with Power’s secretary asking Power to call me if they get a chance.
But mainly I just want to do three manageable things. Get rid of the brown coins, clear out the attic and sort out all the photos in my Dropbox.
There won’t be much move on the brown money for a while. Brown coins are probably a vector for all sorts of plague. The attic is in progress. We have reached a stalemate. We made some incursions up there but its defenses were strong. It placed a number of Bags For Life In Which Not One Object Matches Another in our path and we beat a hasty retreat down the Styra, clutching one sock that could definitely go to the clothes bank. We think. Actually, better hang on in case we find its comrade.
It’s also hard to declutter as the second-hand market is stymied by lockdown. Driving to collect a Box Of Leads is not considered an essential journey.
And any progress we do make gets undone by the need to get stuff out of the rest of the house. Every time we tidy downstairs, Madonna’s Erotic plays in my head. But instead of inviting someone to put their hands all over my body, I’m just humming “The attic, the attic. Throw that shite up into the attic.”
So I’m doing something about it. When I’m supposed to be writing or doing the VAT, if I get distracted, instead of sharing my epidemiology knowledge on Facebook, I now go into my giant pile of unsorted photos and sort them. One grim day at a time.
And it feels good. Even now, in the gap between starting this sentence and finishing it, I was off deleting hundreds of family photos spoiled by my resting bitch face.
Megabyte upon megabyte horsed into the recycling bin. But this bin doesn’t go out on a Tuesday to be mixed in the truck with that of the neighbour who is putting food into theirs. No, this one is emptied free of charge.
I am left with a manageable record of the recent past, especially lockdown. What did we do when we did nothing? I am reminded of things I’d forgotten. Cycles I went on at dawn and dusk patrolling the perimeter of our Allowable Zone like a youngish private from Dad’s army.
I don’t know whether the mental health gurus would recommend it, but my mind feels clearer at the thought of it.
And aside from that tidy feeling, there is another benefit. Going back through the photos of lockdown, they are like a highlights reel. There are days we went on little outings and because they are recent, I know for a fact it took two hours to leave the house after a search for the youngest’s Small Piggy, the most vital object in the world. But those memories of frustration will fade and all I will be left with are a couple of photos of small children galumphing in wildflower meadows.
And galumphing is one of my goals.
