We’re moving, downsizing, so it’s time for a big clear out, but I’m struggling. I’m doing drawers first and in the deeper recesses find baby
Onto books, which is painful but I fill two IKEA bags for recycling and cram the rest in a chest for now. Only a measly few remain on the shelves, grouped by colour. Tidy yes, but do I want to sell to people who judge a house by its book covers? Sure.
Other people’s books are much easier. Eldest’s Harry Potter collection? He’s out so I chuck them on a pile.
“Oooohhhh, risky,” says Youngest.
“He’s in his twenties!” I say.
“If they’re going to a kid that’ll read them, he’ll be OK,” says Middle helpfully.
I raise it with Eldest when he comes in.
“What? No! Not the Harry Potters. I might read them again.”
“You know what happens.”
“I know, but JK Rowling… genius. That was my childhood.”
Gallopin’ Gorgons, as Hagrid would say. I retreat for now, but like Voldemort I’ll return.
Lots of MY favourites are going – Shakespeares, post-war Amerian fiction, classics, Booker winners, sci-fi, they pile up on the hall table, ready for the cowp.
But Eldest is at it again, grabbing handfuls as he passes.
“Julius Caesar, always fancied that. And Midsummer Night’s Dream, any good?” he asks.
“No! Absolute rubbish, you wouldn’t like them,” I say, but he stashes them with the Harry Potters in his room.
I move on to filing cabinets, and three hours of Dobbying later, three chambers of secrets have become one. Result. Except an empty cabinet is now in Eldest’s room. “Bedside table,” he says, placing the Harry Potters lovingly inside. Cursed Child.
But next week they’re all away with Other Parent and Harry’s for the heave-ho. There’s a banishing charm that’ll be just wizard with the de-cluttering and it’ll be ‘Depulso!’ Harry Potters.