I held in my hands an exact replica of my college common room, complete with imaginary kitchen. It was finely crafted from bits of cardboard and blue-tac, and was set in a box which once contained a ‘Paint Your Own Lamp’ kit; the dreams of old. My friend Claire had made this for me years ago and I was fighting for its right to survival.
‘But I can’t throw it out… look at the imaginary microwave!’
I was moving out my Dad’s house into a flat above a lingerie shop. Sexy, flat-based times were to be had, and I simply had no room in my new place for all the crap from my old place, not with all the lingerie I was planning on stealing.
‘If you’re not taking it, why not just throw it away?’, my father implored, evidently unaware of the joys of potential loft adventures and moving all my old stuff. It would have been totally awesome. He didn’t seem convinced.
‘But it’s the logic, the logic of… memories!’
There was my first jewellery box with the little magical noise, the SpongeBob I had won at hook-a-duck four years ago whose arm had fallen off, but whom I didn’t have the heart to throw out, and a large painting of the Last Supper which I had mysteriously acquired from one of my teachers at senior school. She had given it to me in the spirit of the Da Vinci Code when her grandfather had passed away, and my journey home from school that day with a 3 foot painting of Jesus held in my atheist hands was remarkably uneventful. But then I did have Jesus’s face in my armpit- no-one wuz gonna try no shit.
‘Why do you even still need this?’
‘No-one wuz gonna try no shit’.
‘I… I don’t know what you just said’.
‘Dad, it would be disrespecting the dead to throw it away’.
‘Isn’t it more disrespectful to leave it rotting in the loft?’
‘No. It’ll be like the Picture of Dorian Gray. Somewhere, somehow… Jesus is getting prettier’.