Piles

November 13, 2007 – 5:04 pm by Cath

I’ve got a problem with piles. Nope, not the sort that demands strange unguents and a certain dread of the little girls’ room. I mean the sort that comes from having a clear out (actually, it’s almost the same thing, now I’ve put it that way).

What I mean is that, thanks to the bun in my oven, I’m shifting my office to a different room in the house. Well, the child needs a nursery, by all accounts. And that means facing the purgatory that is emptying filing cabinets and discovering once-vital documents that weaseled their way behind radiators or under rugs. It also means that, as I bash out this post, I’m surrounded by teetering piles of my previous work. I’m squatting amongst enough newspaper and magazine cuttings to hold me entirely responsible for the destruction of the rainforests. Please, feel free to tie me to a composter where the endangered species of the world can nibble at my innards.

Anyway, it’s been nothing short of a shock, seeing my entire career carepeting my office. I’ve stumbled upon the first feature I ever wrote and the begging letter that landed me my first post as a journalist. There are letters from readers who considered me to be the embodiment of the second coming and letters from readers who swore that they’d throttle my family if they ever had the misfortune to bump into me. It’s boggling that I’ve forgotten it all. Well, they say that you’re as good as your last story. I’ve taken that literally. In fact I’ve developed the ability to erase any memory that preceeds the last copy I filed (four days ago if you’re wondering). Seeing my work spewing out of a filing cabinet, like that story about the porridge machine that drowned a village, has given me the distinct need for a sit down. Now, if only I could find a space to do it.

You must be logged in to post a comment.