Loft

The loft  - enter at your own risk....

I used to mock my Dad about his loft, saying it was Steptoe's Shop up there. It IS like Steptoe's shop up there to be fair. For those who aren't familiar Steptoe & Son was a British comedy broadcast in the 1960's and 70's about a pair of rag and bone men with a shop filled to the rafters with useless rubbish.

Our loft is totally squeezed full, every conceivable space is packed. What's up there you may well ask. The only answer to that would be EVERYTHING. You name it, there's one in the loft. It would probably be quicker to list what was not somewhere in Dad's loft. We're not just talking your bog standard Christmas tree, boxes of decorations, that sort of thing. I swear he could easily kit out an entire other house with all the clobber up there.

It particularly amuses me because outwardly my dear old Pa is an incredibly neat and organised man. The loft is his Achilles heel, the guilty secret that would badly let down his public image....and I know it's there MWAHAHAHA!

I sometimes lay in bed at night worrying that the weight of the lift contents will crumble the ceiling onto our sleeping bodies, and that we'll be found, weeks later in a catacomb like tomb made up of waste paper baskets, dog beds, train sets and old cheque book stubs. I used to complain like mad that he needed to get it sorted, well not any more!

Before Christmas (expensive wedding present) microwave inexplicable broke. It may have had something to do with me snapping off an important looking piece of plastic from the door with my dressing gown sleeve (it was EARLY) but I haven't confessed to that happening so it must have been Mr Husband Sir's fault. Ahem.

I recounted our tale of woe (well, part of it) to my Dad, who said nothing. Went up to the loft, and came down minutes later with a replacement microwave. What a star!

When the kettle gave up on life (limescale this time, not me) he produced from the loft a choice of not one, but two alternative kettles.

On Thursday our lounge lamp passed away. We changed bulbs, fuses and hours of surgery passed in vain. I girded myself for the thought that the corner of our sitting room would from now on be a dark and soulless place. My Pa, in respectful silence left me alone with my thoughts.

He returned, from the loft, with an identical lamp that I did not know existed, this is less weird than it sounds, he gave us the lamp originally, and used to have three the same, he hasn't been cloning our furniture for emergencies. Anyway he lit up the room once again, and quietly retreated to the East Wing (the extension).

It turns out my lovely Dad is not a secret hoarder, or a lunatic of any kind. The reality is that he is SO organised and SO prepared for any twists, turns and minor mishaps that may occur, he has a whole loft full of contingency plans so we don't have to suffer.

I love that man.  And I am never mocking his Steptoe loft again.

So which are you?  Hoarder or chucker?  Can you part with what someday might be just what you need?  Do you plan for what might happen, or go with whatever comes along?  Is there anyone else out there with a loft full of just-in-case?