Behold a clean and empty garage… its contents transferred to a huge skip outside. All the chewed wallpaper, decorations, comfy golf bags, dropping covered debris. The bits and bobs that once were important, preserved in the garage for the next time of need. All ruined. The mice won. Until we killed them, that is.
In the end it wasn’t the droppings that did for me. It was the dumping, not of particular stuff, but of the hope and optimism with which Herself had moved to that house just over a dozen years ago. In her late fifties, with a busy social life, she bought a house with loads of space for us all to expand into. A big cosy kitchen to spend the time in. A utility to hide the practical. More space for style. A house to be filled with grandchildren.
We donned wellies, gloves and practical clothes. We lifted and carried and dumped. Nibbled lampshades and photographs. (Who keeps photographs in the garage?) Chewed through cardboard boxes of something. It all went. Spurs Fan even climbed the rotting ladder to clear gutters of their own private gardens. I brushed and brushed, until I thought I’d never be clean again.
Handsome Husband was baffled, “Why are you throwing away your mummy’s stuff? Well, it’s you doing it, it’s not my business… Why are you throwing away your mummy’s stuff?” That was just as much fun as it sounds.
We kept Jake well away from the garage and the hot press- it would be typical if the only thing the mouse traps ever caught was his nose.