Dreaming of Declutter

For the last few months I’ve been lost in a book bubble. Every spare working hour has been spent writing. And while I love it, when it gets difficult I tend to fantasise about what I’ll do when the book is done and the bubble bursts and I’m freeeeee! This time I’ve been obsessing about decluttering. It started when I read an article about Marie Kondo and her book The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up: The Japanese Art of Decluttering and Organising.


Kondo’s mantra of only keeping things that bring you joy and her technique of folding clothes has lit a little fire of obsession in my brain. So when I was stuck on a particularly tricky part of my book revisions I took a break and refolded everything in my drawers. I was a folding demon! And am now an upright fold and stacker – my clothes are arranged like a filing cabinet. It’s life altering… Why did I not do this earlier? You can see everything (I found tops I’d forgotten I owned), you can fit more in so you don’t have to ram it all down to shut the drawer and nothing really gets creased. I’m a folding Konvert.


So next up is the rest of the flat. Not the folding but the bringing of joy bit. Room by room everything is going to have to prove its worth. I’m particularly looking forward to the storage cupboard which has become one of those places to shove something with half closed eyes and hope everything else doesn’t collapse on top of you. It most certainly doesn’t bring me joy. I can sense the stuff in there quaking in its boots, praying the book never gets finished.

My clutter shouldn’t worry too much though, I’m pretty sure that as soon as the book is done, and I have the time to do it, decluttering will hold much less appeal!

Sunny Spain

I’ve just come back from two weeks in Spain. We flew to Barcelona and then drove up the coast staying in four different places – a campsite in Tossa de Mar, an apartment in Sa Tuna, a little villa in the middle of nowhere near Cistella and then finally a hotel in Sitges. It was amazing! So many different things to see, beautiful beaches, boiling weather and the most incredible food – from plates of mouthwatering tapas to fish flame-grilled moments after being caught.


But wow…a holiday with a one and a half year old! Times have definitely changed. Ridiculously (in retrospect) I took four books with me and only read half of one. I know now that I should have used my easyJet luggage allowance for toys rather than reading material.

I’ll admit that I’m used to holidays lying on my towel in the sand reading, maybe having a swim and then perhaps a little snooze followed by a coffee or a cold beer. This did not happen on this holiday! Yet the thing was, once I finally accepted that this type of holiday was to be shelved for a few years at least, I realised that the beach had so much more to offer! I’d forgotten how satisfying it is to make a sandcastle (even if it’s pushed to the ground a moment later), to dig a hole and watch it fill with water, to find shells and sea-glass, hear pebbles plop into the water, splash in puddles left by the sea and sit wrapped in towels after swimming eating cheese and ham sandwiches and sandy crisps.

And there’s nowhere better to be with a babe than Spain! They love them! It was so nice. And there’s a playground on every corner so it’s a toddler’s paradise.


So while holidays may have changed for a while (and coming home is actually quite a relief!) I am a bucket and spade convert. What I have sacrificed in books I have more than made up for with sand castles, ice creams, chasing butterflies, swings and seesaws and Peppa Pig stickers.

There’s nothing like sticky little ice-cream hands covered in sand and suntan lotion! Bring on the next holiday I say 😉

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Hunting for Treasure

I was wondering the other day if I’d lost it. ‘It’ being my ability to spot something that I liked. Most especially at vintage fairs, car boot sales and antique markets. It had been ages since I’d bought anything. I blamed the weather, I blamed the people selling things, I blamed the fact that I already have far too much stuff in my house and that was squashing my desire to buy. I was still finding clothes when I went shopping. And shoes. And bags and make up etc. But just not getting that hit when I went a hunting.

Many a Tuesday I have spent with my sister traipsing round Kempton Antique market in the freezing cold or boiling hot perusing the taxidermy, the old wine crates, the shop front letters, the school science equipment (remember those clamp stands that used to hold the test tubes over the Bunsen burners? [remember Bunsen burners!] Well there are whole heaps of them available to buy). My flat is laden down with odd little nicknacks and I eat my dinner off plates celebrating various coronations. There are so many pictures on my walls that it’s a strictly one in one out policy – I imagine the art cowering every time I leave for a car boot on a Sunday.

It was safe to say I was having a vintage dry spell. I was picking things up from tables out of desperation. Holding them up to whoever I was with only to see their faces crinkle with disgust. I bought a few things but they pretty much went straight into the cupboard under the stairs – a resting place for guilty car boot purchases before I can justifiably take them to the charity shop.

And then we went to France.

One week. A day or two of sun. Quite a lot of rain. Nice oysters. Horrid gales. No wifi. Teething one-ish year old. And quite possibly the best car boot sale I have ever been to.

It was the last day. We were taking a leisurely drive to Rouen where we were staying the night before heading to the ferry. All week we had seen signs for a brocante (french antique fair) in the nearby town. So many signs that we were pretty sure it was going to be a super dooper affair and had planned a number of hours into the itinerary in order to do it justice.

There were eight stalls. One of which was selling new crystal glasses. The one-ish year old was very bored. We were disappointed. We walked round forlornly. It started to rain. We bought a picture of a lobster (not found by me). And we left (working out which picture at home would be banished to the cupboard in favour of the crustacean).

It was as we were lamenting the tininess of our day’s activity and the amazing marketing for such a weeny event, that we saw more signs. They were less impressive, almost missable, tied to the odd lamppost here and there. They advertised a vide-grenier (french for car boot sale/ empty attic sale – I think). We definitely had the time, but did we have the inclination? We’d been burned by the brocante. Was it worth it? There was nothing else to do. So we snaked round houses, through parks, looped down cul-de-sacs until we finally found the football stadium which housed the vaguely signposted v-g. We followed the crowds. The poor one-ish year old could sense what was coming.

There it was. One whole field of stall upon stall of stuff.

It was amazing.

My french isn’t great. But it’s good enough to haggle. And I was back in the game. Now I know that what I buy isn’t to everyone’s taste, but I love it. And I loved this place. There were little ceramic jars for tea, sugar and spices, there was an old ice bucket branded for french liqueur, there was a small statue of St Teresa with only one eye that I bought for a euro from a woman who I think was a nun (it’s equally possible I made her a nun in my imagination), and for the one-ish year old there was a plastic crocodile and a plastic house thing.


It was magic. And what made it even better was at the end, unlike a British car boot, there was a big open tent selling little glasses of white wine, barbecued sausages in fresh baguettes and crepes with lemon or nutella, all for a euro or two. It was brilliant. I could go home happy.

I even found a space on the wall for the lobster so no pictures were banished or hurt in the telling of this tale.

Have you found any treasure lately? Tweet me and let me know @jenoliverbooks