Was at home today with my sister sorting through her old room (now one of many dumping rooms) in order to help my mother achieve the perennially planned-for move. It is necessary to be ruthless when moving house. Ruthless. Anything that serves no purpose, or whose size outweighs its sentimental value must be disposed of. It was heart-wrenching chucking out old toys, old baby suits and playthings; clothes and costumes my mother had made for us both as little children. And I never thought throwing away my old Nintendo Entertainment System and its precious games would be quite so difficult (you just can’t be bothered with the £10 it would make on ebay, if that). We kept a few things – I piled up old mix tapes and books, and Rhi her diaries and notes to friends in lessons at school. It’s weird to think though that all those little childhood things are in bin bags, waiting to go out with the leftovers, egg shells and empty milk cartons.
Some things however won’t be missed, like poor Borg Teddy Bear, the freak staring “cuddly” toy, and the painting of those two bastard clowns that used to hang on my wardrobe door at the end of my bed. Every night I would fall asleep looking at their grotesquely painted faces.
I hate clowns. They scare the living hell out of me.
Now I know why.
The said painting is now in four neat little bits in four different binbags. Anyone looking for an evil quest might wish to consider scouring Hounslow Council refuse tip to reassemble this frankly deviant work of dark art.
