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I remember the early 1980s, when I started my first business and was interviewing for a messenger boy, one little lad, Patrick his name was, begged me “Please, missus, please giz the job. I’m from the Cattle Market and nobody’ll take me on.” The Cattle Market was a notoriously rough part of Dublin. I hired him on the spot. After all, I’d lived in more than a few dodgy areas myself, thanks to my parents’ profligate ways, and while I was never ashamed of that, I’d also never been in the position of having to find work.
Of course, once I rid myself of my parents and worked my way up from nothing to a state of extreme poverty, the standard of my accommodation improved considerably. Not that I’m particularly house-proud, though I am fastidious about cleanliness and order, or a maniac if you believe my brother. As long as everything’s clean and in its place, I couldn’t care less about aesthetics.
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When we moved into this house almost six years ago, it came fully furnished with the previous owners’ belongings — bedding, cutlery, pots, pans, the lot. And that’s exactly how it has remained. You may think I’m joking, but there are presses and drawers exactly as they were the day the former owners walked out. The only thing I’ve changed is the tablecloth.
Perhaps it’s a consequence of spending much of my life in rented accommodation. I live as though I’ll be moving out next week.
The clown you see above, for example, has been hanging around since we arrived, as has this poster.
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I haven’t touched the drawer full of placemats I’ll never use, nor the one housing a shoe-polish collection.
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Life’s just too short… or too long. I can’t quite decide.
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Posted in response to galenkp's weekend experience
prompt asking 'Are you house-proud and care how your home presents and its state of cleanliness?"and 'Are you ashamed of where you live and come from. '
