I’ve lived with girls all my life. My five beautiful sisters were first, followed by flat mates and housemates through Uni and single life, and now Vicky, Ella and Beako. In all that time I was never exposed to their clothing. Or, to be more precise, the volume of clothing.
I was always aware that these ladies in my life had significant volumes of clothes but they were always contained. Kept in chests, cupboards and bedrooms. Safely out of my way. I. Never saw them in the one place at the one time.
However, as Ella and Rebecca grow older, their garment count increases and the more time I spend at home the more I realise it. Why? Because I’m fighting for space.
In my early blogs I described my Parkinson’s as being like an elephant in the room with me. As time passes the elephant has diminished, at least for a while. But it has been replaced by a horse. The horse that lives in the Back Room. The Back Room where I have a desk and files. And a horse. A bulging, groaning, overworked horse. The Williams family clothes horse.
Every day he gets covered in more clothes than he can carry. He is huge, there is no room for a bigger one. Yet he isn’t big enough to cope with Rebecca’s desire to wear four outfits a day (driven by her fickle mind and slovenly eating habits.)
When he’s full, and I have no problem working alongside this Clydesdale of a beast, the problem starts. Overspill. Every edge, every arm, every corner has something draped over it or hanging from it. My desk is on the far side of the room, I have to weave my way through the hanging gardens of Biological soap powder to get to my seat, only to find it swaddled in damp, well conditioned clothing. Vicky used to work in a chippy and she knows how to wrap. It takes a while to peel back the layers and reveal th chair beneath.
But it’s better having a horse in the room than an elephant I suppose.