It appears I have misplaced my blog entry for Dec. 31st. It was here one moment and gone the next. It's baffling and disturbing and I feel very co-dependant right now. I have to do something about this attachment business. I guess they are just words but I'm thinking it might not be an awful idea to engage in some sort of techy back up exercise so that I can play the 'did' - 'did not' game with whoever it is that stole the damn thing. Was it you Google? Was it something I said?
Actually this has made me think a lot about possessions and emotional attachment to 'things' as I face the gargantuan task of packing up a 3 storey home so that it will fit neatly onto one pallet bound for the shores of Blightey. I have a matter of weeks in which to do this so, no need to panic. Actually, as I look around I realise I kind of have this attachment thing down to a fine art, either that or it's true that when you don't commit in your heart to something, you don't really feather it so to speak. To wit: packing will be easy.
I have at best a couple of possessions I truly feel compelled to bring home with me. A Selfridges bed and a cherry wood bench. Not bad for 38 years.
But I will probably bring home a few more bits and pieces for comfort's sake. The really important stuff for me appears to be the intangible. I am irritatingly good at holding onto the vapid - you know past gripes, embarrassing episodes but also good stuff too. I was in bed the other night and for no reason at all I remembered a silly thing that happened to an old boyfriend that still to this day makes me laugh out loud.
We lived in a flat with a front door that had the exasperating habit of swinging shut usually as you bent down to lift groceries or something thereby requiring you to go through the whole rigmarole of freeing a hand and fiddling around for the keys again - that is if you were lucky not to have already put them down somewhere inside. The landlord, a Mr. Rahman, came round one day to say hello and put up the rent or some such landlordy thing. I was working at a record store in Piccadilly - believe me when I say it doesn't get more central than Piccadilly on a Saturday afternoon. Somehow the door shut behind both said boyfriend, who was shoeless (it was a Saturday afternoon afterall) and the landlord, who had his whole family waiting in the car outside.
Imagine my surprise to see the landlord appear in the Easy Listening section of aforementioned record store asking for the keys to the flat. My boyfriend meanwhile was sandwiched, barefoot - which explains why it fell to the landlord to come into Europe's largest and busiest record store - between his plump wife and far from starving daughter, in the back of a Volvo Estate illegally parked in front of the statue of Eros. I have to say, Mr. Rahman was very gallant about it all.
The landlord, a devout Hindu from Gujarat must have seen the funny side eventually as we went onto stay 5 years in that flat without any subsequent repercussion.
So anyway, back to the point I was trying to make. If the ship sinks with all my worldly possessions, aside from the bed and the cherry wood bench - it will not matter to me as long as I retain priceless and precious memories of this sort.
If you should however come across my December 31st post, I would very much like to see it again - please return it care of the above blog.
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