Coming down from the attic I grumbled to Husband, 'We need to sort out up there: I smell death.'
On Friday, as it was raining, instead of a day out Husband and I spent the time together clearing out the attic. Or rather beginning the process of clearing out the attic. And we have a very strange result: the attic looks very much the same as it did before we started but the rest of the house is now covered in piles. A pile for throwing away, a pile for charity shops, a pile that needs a good home, a pile that is possible museum quality (yes, it's that old), and several piles that have to be sorted into other smaller piles based on some criterion or other.
I'm still trying to find a home for my wedding dress. There are a few places that use old wedding dresses to make special funeral robes for tiny babies but they all say they're not currently accepting.
Of the thirty or so jigsaws I am reluctantly getting rid of the local dementia group is taking five. Only twenty-five to go.
I also came across:
my old physics A-level notes;
an early article of mine in the 1968 school magazine;
and my grammar school report book.
Could do better is the story of my life really.
I went to Glanmor Grammar School when given the choice after passing my 11+. It was the school my mother attended thirty years earlier.