I feel excessively indulgent. I have a rarely-used guest room. The room is called that because it has a bed in it, not a guest. It’s odd calling something by the thing that is absent. I suppose the passenger seat in the car is always the passenger seat even when there’s no passenger.
Another odd thing, I’m surprised that I own two beds. In my non-conformist twenties I deliberately shunned such things and slept on a mattress on the floor.
But if I want aging family and friends to visit, I need to provide …or entice … them with something suitable for arthritic lumps and bumps.
In many houses, or so I’m told, the guest room often becomes the dumping ground for those odd things that don’t fit anywhere else. It’s effectively a store room. In my case, it was also the place where papers and assorted small items would land in a heap whenever I desperately needed an uncluttered desk in order to unclutter the thinking needed to straighten out the latest uni assignment. I’m inclined to dump that last sentence in there as well.
With overnight guests expected during the next couple of months, it was time to put my hand up for assistance. Sometimes, a little help over the hurdle helps. And is appreciated.
In this my Year of Liveability, with thanks to Mum and sister K, I can tick off another space returned to a sense of order.
However, the process has drawn my attention to three new issues. There are assorted sizes of bed linen that don’t match current sizes of beds, a large box of scarves I’m unlikely to wear again and a rock-hard futon mattress.
These seem trivial in a world so full of problems. Or perhaps they are reminders that the abundance of trivial is one of the world’s problems?
The work to identify the worthwhile goes on.