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I have just been outside, at 5.30, to get some fresh air. I have no real idea why I broke up the slab yesterday evening. It is a very low priority in the grand scheme of making things tidier. Perhaps it was a reaction to finally having the slab cleared? Seeing it in all its true ugliness.
Crazed and moss covered. Dirty, from where soil had built up under and between the detritus of plant growing. The loaded pallets, the pots and the various hideously mismatched, shelving units. My wife's long term "additions" had hidden most of the concrete from view. Was my attack on the slab a reaction to almost total denial of access for so very long?
Or a vain attempt to erase the painful memory of her constant activities out there? Her pottering about in the complex art of gardening. Was there some residual resentment at my own exclusion? Even when I brought back heavy bags of soil it was difficult to reach the stack. Which was often arranged on various levels. Piled on top of items now safely lost to the ever welcoming, recycling yards.
Talking of which: I have my own hoard to reduce. Bike frames and partial bikes and trikes. Cannibalised for parts. Their true value measure only in fading memory. Why have they seemed a lower priority than my wife's "stuff?" They are certainly lower profile. Bing largely hidden from view.
Despite promises made on her deathbed I still cannot get into my shed without effort. The floor is covered in plywood offcuts. Of little value to anybody. Including myself. I took them down, from on high, to be rid of them. Yet still they remain. Am I too in denial? Am I being disloyal in removing only, her stuff? Before even considering my own?
I keep wondering why I didn't stand up to her more. If only on territorial grounds alone. Were we really battling for supremacy beneath the surface? She with Her inaccessible greenhouse. Her inaccessible slab and Her "don't you dare touch it" entire garden. Myself with my outbuildings. One shed was partially shared and rarely accessible because of her mowers and rechargeable gardening tools. Or, more often, their empty boxes.
I now see lots of signs of her hoarding even my own stuff. The area under the big chestnut with rusting, old plumbing pipes. Taken out 25 years ago when I dismantled the lunacy of the oil fired central heating. With large pipes across every interior threshold. The unused greenhouse components. From way back.
When I built two lean-to greenhouses into one long one. 8'x22'. She filled it with shelving and bamboo furniture. Planted her seeds and did her pricking out, on the corner of a pile of who knows what. Piles of ironwork with no useful purpose. Except for somewhat doubtful decoration.
All those offcuts of timber and plywood. Which I can guarantee will never, ever be used. I keep finding more and more boxes of these offcuts. Fitted together with a level of skill worthy of a mention in The Guinness Book of Records. Was she thinking of providing firewood in hard times? She knew we shouldn't burn plywood.
There is this huge hole in my understanding of her motives. Things we never, consciously discussed. There were so many things which went unsaid. Perhaps to be brought up in a heated argument? We argued all the time. Including on our first date. Unlikely clues were dropped about something completely different when voices were raised. Was I simply not listening well enough? Or not paying attention?
6.30 Bright in the NE. Calm. The sky looks clear. Not too early for breakfast now. There is still just enough porridge to make my "muesli." I have been having stomach aches for several days. Eating too much bread and rolls? I am not usually known for having tummy problems. I am being careful over "best before" dates. Ensuring I eat in variety. Being careful with the washing up and hand hygiene.
7.00 I had better have a walk to straighten myself out. Early walk, almost no traffic, mist still hanging about low down. Still not identified the trilling bird. I have heard it in the garden trees several times now. I now most of the common bird's songs. This distinctive trilling doesn't show up on the birdsong websites. We have even had escaped budgies in the garden but it's not one of those. The wind turbines were at a standstill today.
8.40 44F and bright sunshine. Now to go shopping. I keep wanting to go for a ride on my trike. My wife was worried about me having an accident and leaving her behind. Tricycle shopping? It has been a very long time. Can I still find my cycling shoes? No plated shoes and SPD pedals is not a great idea.
Shoes found. Track pump found. Oiled the trike with chain spray. Found the key and oiled the U-lock. Now to find gloves and a wind proof, cycling jacket. Though it isn't as cold as earlier. I shan't bother with cycling shorts for such a short ride. My helmet is falling to pieces.
10.00 51F. A lovely day. Just back from 7m tricycle shopping. None of my favourite rolls at either supermarket. Bit of a headwind coming home. No problem maintaining low 90s rpm cadence. I wore a T-shirt and noticed how sweaty and cold they can get. It needs a cycle jersey next time. The narrow, fleece trousers were fine for such a short trip.
Plans for today? The trailer is empty. Just for a change.
12.00 I have picked up a secondhand, Lumix TZ7 to replace my non-functional camera. My TZ7 served me well for years before the screen stopped working. It felt very odd going out without it.
13.15 I have just returned from delivering three bikes and a mobility trike to the scrap metal container at the nearest, recycling yard. Lunch first and then I shall gather the plywood off-cuts on the shed floor. The stray cat was trying its luck for the cream again. My wife still isn't here. I don't think either of us can quite believe it.
15.15 54F. Just back from the recycling yard. Having left the plywood off-cuts, loads of bubble wrap and yet more cardboard boxes.
16.40 I have managed an hour's nap to catch up on my missing sleep.
20.00 I have just realised that my recent behaviour is like ADHD on steroids. [Instead of dopamine.] I am totally focused on novelty. As I push the more urgent tasks to the back of the queue. I can no longer concentrate on "boring old" clearing up indoors. Having achieved the clearance of the TV stage, of my own hoard, my motivation has gone. I carried the boxes of my wife's glassware and china carefully upstairs and placed it on the stage. No further effort was expended in arranging it most efficiently.
I keep looking for novel tasks which inspire me to get them done. Giving myself a reward [self praise] for 20 trailer loads delivered to the recycling yard. Even driving to the more distant yard. [Novelty again!] I could blame my procrastination on depression but that would be a feeble excuse.
Bragging about my rapid progress with the concrete slab was self praise for novelty again. The slab is totally irrelevant to my tidying up outside. In fact it made matters worse in the short term. The car would have to run over the rubble while I turned the car around in an already, very limited space. I need to move the rubble immediately. To gain more space. Not less!
I can see this pattern of behaviour repeated in everything I have done so far. The absence of planning. The reward for making the most visible changes. Even rewarding myself by blogging virtual self praise. Instead of actually doing something useful or constructive to optimise my conditions for living alone.
Like reorganising the kitchen worktop layout. Small changes which are working well for me. Instead of the alternative of providing resistance to food preparation. Which might well have tipped me towards failing to feed myself properly. Particularly in moments of sadness and sudden mood swings.
21.00 Now I have emptied one wheelbarrow I can use that to move the concrete rubble. The rubble has now been moved away.
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