I’m someone that is at heart a sentimentalist. I’ve retained much of my childhood memorabilia over the years simply because they retain such sentimental value. There are boxes stocked with my old comic books, games, Lego, figures from various 90’s animation shows and, well really. I’ve even kept a hideous collage featuring some of Newcastle United’s most prolific players from the 90’s, presumably commissioned by Peter Sutcliffe and painted by a disturbed blind man. But because it was a gift from my Aunt, one of the world’s most perfect human beings, I couldn’t possibly part with it. My partner however is far more of a pragmatist. To her, it’s just stuff. And it is really. As much as I care about these items, I wouldn’t run into a burning building to retrieve them. However if on the way out I may grab a handful of figures, depending on the severity of the raging inferno. The point I’m failing to make is that my partner and myself deal with “clutter” in very different ways. Which has led to what I will refer to as “the incident”.

Now anyone vaguely familiar with my blog, which is precisely…none of you, let me first summarize a previous incident that relates to this new development. Last year our family home was subject to the occupation of a very much unwanted resident: Bed Bugs. For months these invasive little bloodsuckers caused persistent emotional, physical and financial distress. After several months, a great purge of furniture, carpets and even Christmas decorations, we were finally rid (fingers crossed) of these durable creatures. But in the process several items, secured in plastic containers were left outside. All at the mercy of the great British elements. I of course ensured that many of my old games were stored safely in the shed, alongside any other valuable possessions. What I didn’t realize is that not all of these assets were where I thought they were. So over the course of 6 months, savaged by rain, drizzle, flooding and snow, an innocuous box full of vintage Pokemon cards was eviscerated into mulch!

I don’t think I have been so upset, angry as well as confused, all in one composite emotion. These little rectangular pieces of cardboard were such a critical part of everyone’s adolesnce. You would trade with friends in school for the cards you needed, slowly acquiring every one from the set until you “caught em all” as it were. My best friend and I would regularly go to the our local proprietor of all things geeky and sad, purchase a booster pack each, hoping to discover the illusive Charizard shiny, which my friend eventually did. And I didn’t. A moment that still rankles me to this day. But overtime we built up an extensive collection of duplicates, all of which I kept safely stored, primed for the day when the value of these cards had increased to the point that I could sell them all and purchase my own private island, somewhere in the Mediterranean. Naturally the seemingly arbitrary inflation of these cards value hasn’t escalated to the point where I can notify work of my immenent retirement, but many of these cards could have fetched quite a hefty sum. Instead, they now reside in a dump somewhere, fertilizing the acrid earth of discarded beanie babies and ferbies. The only reasonable question now is how my partner could adequately reimburse me for her negligence. I’m thinking hobbling? Though perhaps under the circumstances, more severe measures may be necessary?