Domestic Dad returns

Flat no. 10 gets a gorgeous bunch of flowers, but all flat no. 15 gets is eyeballs that hurt and a runny nose. I feel morose as the florist apologies and moves on and my joy (already restrained by the thought of more packing) at the new found knowledge that I can check in another bag turns to frustration as I realise I don't have an appropriate bag as I survey my arsenal of borrowed luggage.

Visions of the trauma brought on by the descent of Domestic Dad! on Sundays back in the day flit through my head as I appraise the solidly packed bag in front of me. I had not anticipated having to unpack it quite just yet. I have no time to mourn my lost Saturday as I sift through the rubble trying to decide what can go back now and what needs to stay. Domestic Dad hovers over me as my hands examine the smoothness of the Icelandic stones I carted back. "Junk" he'd bellow as he'd toss all my prized possessions from my drawers in a cleaning frenzy. I'd always wondered why Ba couldn't just be like the other Dad's, totally oblivious to their offspring and chattels, but oh no! Mine was a domestic goddess and his idea of a fun Sunday was to clean the house, but he certainly wasn't one of those namby pamby solo superheroes. Nope. Domestic Dad always had a trusty sidekick, to hold up the vacuum cleaner as he scoured the highest corners of the room for that doomed spiders web; to hand suitable monkey wrenches, hammers, nails, rags; to write down recipes; to fetch the beer; to hold the stool steady......

Personally, I thought it never built any character in a sidekick, but I would have gladly traded a couple of hours curled up in bed to trail in Domestic Dad's wake as long as he stayed away from my room and the precious contents of my drawers. But superheroes have no mercy.... and I'd watch in horror as entire drawers would be laid on the floor, the frame a cowering skeleton as he rummaged through them, roaring his disbelief at the strange collection of items within and the battle would ensue. "No!" I'd yelp, snatching at an odd assortment of objects. "But Mud (to rhyme with good), they're junk.... what will you ever do with them?". Do? Do?? What on earth does he mean? What does one do with anything? KEEP THEM! "Do you even use this?" receives an outraged, "Of course I have!". An annoyed "For what?" encounters a livid "I use it!!". Increasing decibel levels reluctantly invoke She Who Keeps Us From Killing Each Other, and her pained expression is lost on the superhero/sidekick duo as she tries to keep the peace and my possessions, before boredom sends her wafting out the room whence she came.

Many moons have since passed, and I have become a lot more ruthless. My wardrobe has an average age of 4 years (skewed by this one ensemble from the 80's... and perhaps a few remnants of the 90's... but I believe in style!) and my shoes even less. I am able to even toss away books with nary a quivering lip (OK, so they're crap), and shrug off trinkets amassed from foreign shores. So how is it that I am inspecting 3 large suitcases of just 'stuff'. Grappling with the paralysing question of whether my little boxes should be put in the second bag or just left behind. I stem the urge to burst into tears as I take stock of my choices:

1. Throw the damn stones
2. Keep them while you're in London
3. Lug 'em back

I bite my lip, torn by indecision...... and it occurs to me. There must be a God. Who else would have a twisted cosmic sense of humour as to heap endless packing upon those that hate it the most?