Something to inspire

Look. Isn't this fantastic? Can you see that? I know you're not thinking, Grit, that is just a pile of old junk, stacked in the street, waiting to be collected and fly tipped. No. You know this heap of broken household refuse represents a long, gruelling journey I have made; charting that perilous course with blood and heartache and pain. This is my moment of triumph and achievement. You can share.

But Dig, foolish Dig! He is thinking here is something very tiny and insignificant happening on the periphery of his world! He is in the office right now, all blood pressure face red and sudden quiet with the laying of flat hands on the desk, like some internal combustion is about to explode, so don't look.

Dig has a mission to bring peace and stability to this world with his fine commas but see what happened? I would suggest someone better duck now, because that urgent travel to Nepal? Let's just say all his travel plans are fine to Afghanistan.

Nepal, Afghanistan, close enough if you live behind an admin desk twelve floors above Brompton. But Dig, console yourself with your thwarted ambitions, and look at my achievement! You can surely relate to this. For I have organised the pick up, steeled my resolve, gritted my teeth, and dragged this huge pile of crap lain untouched in the yard for two years and dumped it in the street. You can be justly proud. Call me your wife.


Do you remember the barbells? These barbells hounded my life for fifteen years. Dear reader, these barbells were left in the flat upstairs; the same flat we now use as bedrooms; the flat offered at the bargain price which, unknown to us, came with five sets of bailiffs and a county court judgement. These barbells were left behind by the kind and thoughtful resident called Bruce who, before he disappeared to Brazil, balanced them on the gas pipes under the floorboards together with a stash of 150 pornographic DVD covers, where they could be found by the delighted gas man. Then I had some explaining to do. Like please stop leering at me, because the look on my face is surprise at revelation, not shock of recognition. But you can bet if I ever see Bruce walking down this street again someone better hold me back.

I could go on, detailing the items that have drained my life and lain stashed in the ancient falling down pile and which I am slowly picking out for removal. I could write volumes on the old mattress from Corbridge, the broken chair from Bournemouth, the plastic furniture from Milton Keynes. But it is enough to know that by their departure, my day lifts with success.

So, console yourself, dear Dig. Remember that order can be drawn from chaos. Success can be hewn from bitter experience. Achievement can be a street blockaded with junk.

Think of that, brought about by Grit's resolve, when you tentatively offer up your outstretched hand at that bombed out bus stop in Afghanistan.