November 27th 2016
Today I completed my weekend of uncharacteristic behaviour by cleaning the house bottom to literal top. On Friday I spent a load of money, yesterday I got all festive, and today I cleaned. Advent weekend is doing all sorts of funny things to me. I should probably mention that I was not solitary, or ubiquitous in this ‘house-cleaning’ process. Alice and I always set aside a certain amount of time on Sunday’s to clean the house.
We had various things to do in the morning, and then this evening we cleaned. I usually look forward to weekends because they give me time to do all the things I didn’t have time to do during the week. But increasingly weekends are becoming more for chores than for joy.
The thing I’ve noticed now that I’ve moved out of my parent’s and have my own house is that things don’t just magically happen anymore. I actually have to do shit, which is like no fun.
I had to get up in the loft today. It was the first time I’d been in the loft since we moved in, so I fully expected there to be a dead body up there – naturally.
I had to put suitcases in the loft. What a horrendously adult Sunday afternoon activity.
It was a few years ago that the responsibility finally fell on me to get the Christmas decorations down from the loft. My Dad, although not a tall man, has always been pretty nippy and agile, so would previously have to climb into the loft to get the decorations himself. This required jumping from the chair, to the airing cupboard shelf, balancing on the boiler and leaning on the bathroom door.
It’s perhaps not that difficult, but he’s 50+ and I wanted to make it sound exciting.
At some point, either when I overtook him in height (a while ago) or when he wanted to start delegating me more responsibilities ‘getting Christmas decorations from the loft’ became my responsibility. I always loved getting up into the loft because of firstly, the parkour involved in getting up, and secondly, a sense of usefulness.
It was like I was Father Christmas bringing presents down the chimney except instead of the chimney it was the loft and instead of presents it was tinsel and the felt manger that my sister made when she was six.
And now I have my own house, with it’s own loft. And it was empty. And it’s got a ladder, which is nowhere near as fun as the parkour course entrance to my previous loft.
Is that what adulthood is? A collection of moments between the times you have to go up and down from the loft to get the Christmas decorations?
Until tomorrow, I may be overthinking this.