What I Did On My Creative Writing Course

..Part one of an effort to convey moving away...

Dan left his flat quickly and easily, but it took him nearly five years to realize it. Hurriedly moving to the baltic states with just a rucksack had meant that he'd had to leave the bulk of his effects behind, in the flat, or more accurately the garage, in Stratford upon Avon. 

At least he'd thought to keep things up off the floor, thus avoiding the flood damage from the terrible rainstorms of 2000 and whenever. 

Through all this time he'd kept the flat, let out to tenants, and little by little it ceased to be his. But now he needed to sell, and the new owners were unreceptive to keeping on oily toolboxes, worn leather sofas and ikea tables.

He wasn't going to be able to do this clearing out task alone. Returning on a flight from Tallinn, midweek and at short notice, he could hardly ask the few people he still knew who lived and worked in the area to down tools and come and help. 

Fortunately for Dan, his Aunt Carmen lived in nearby Leamington Spa and hadn't seen him since he moved away – yes, she'd be delighted to help him, came the email. 

Childless herself, Aunt Carmen was fond of Dan ever since, as a little boy, he'd announced that she was his 'other mother'. His own mother had moved to the Northeast of England which made visiting from Tallinn even more difficult, and this time they only managed a phone conversation.

"I had SUCH a bad journey over here".. Aunt Carmen arrived, as she neatly slotted her bulky Subaru into the one parking space Dan had reserved by standing in it for 45 minutes, smoking. She was driving an automatic now, he noticed.. She'd only come about 5 miles.

"Ohhh you're smoking – don't tell your mother about that, she'll be upset". The guilt trip had hit the ground running.

"But I can see you've made a start on the clearing out already". 

Actually, although Dan was in his smelly work clothes he had done nothing at all since he arrived apart from sleep, eat and reminisce.

He was a natural idler who was expert at finding excuses instead of acting, but who strangely found himself warming up to a task once he'd actually started it.

He had, the evening before, thrown open the garage door; a small lock up affair too awkwardly placed for actual parking use – cars had grown quite a bit in the 40 years since it was built on the site of an old people's home. The stale air smelt like a crypt, and his eyes soon became accustomed enough to the dark to see that the looming, tumbled mountain of junk which had accumulated was much bigger in reality than he had anticipated. Feeling a bit nauseated, he shut the door again and went up to the flat to relax.

"Anything you want, you're welcome to" he announced, a phrase he was going to have to repeat many times throughout the day, as Aunt Carmen spied yet another item that would look good on her mantelpiece or would replace Uncle Peter's broken one.

"what about this?" she said, picking up a hole puncher "I think the Simmonds still have ours".

"Yes, anything you want, you're welcome to".

Dan was amazed how much they managed to accomplish in so short a time, contrasting with his earlier depression. He really did start to find it enjoyable and, whilst not bursting into song, he did have one particularly catchy tune in his head for a good twenty minutes.

It was time to make a trip to the local authority garbage tip. Aunt Carmen's car was practically filled with various strata of different stages of Dan's adult life – university days and some arcane books about Whigs and Tories; the first paycheck and his beloved hi fi separates, gorgeous vinyl originals from his serious record store days, photos of trips to Lisbon, Hamburg and Dublin marked the arrival of the budget flight. A colletion of nonsense as well, horrible brass looking lamps stands, inexplicable china dishes and old printers that had never worked, this combination of the sacred and the hated being Dan's whole life laid out like an archaeologists' dig.

"can I see your permit?" asked the refuse tip worker.

"You need a permit now?" asked Aunt Carmen.

"Yeah, all the residents were sent one last year. Godda have a permit to come in".

"But he's a ratepayer, he's got a flat here, it's just that he lives in Estonia."

Dan was burning up with embarrassment, not for the last time that day, at the horror of having his sixty something year old Aunt batting for him in the face of the crippling bureaucracy of Warwickshire County Council and its lumbering enforcers.

"Well you need a permit".

"He has to have a permit? He's a ratepayer here"

"Ok, mum's the word, you can go in" the attendant relented.

"Ok thanks – he's a ratepayer, we can bring proof of that".

"Ok no worries, go on".

"It's just that he lives in Estonia, he's got a flat here".

"ok".

The tip was a little world unto itself; drop off points for all manner of different things with helpful attendants buzzing around ensuring that something glass didn't go in with something metallic. Chatter in a variety of languages added to this sense of transitoriness. It was nice to see that some things weren't going to be merely crushed; there was much that could be recycled or restored or given to charity. They'd done electrical and other bulky items first, the job was going to necessitate at least one return to this bustling little yard.

"Can we come in again later?"

"Sorry?"
"Will you let us in a second time?" asked Aunt Carmen, this time leaning across Dan to yell out of the half opened window.

"yeah of course I will love" the harrassed attendant replied.

Back at the garage, after stopping to check that the twisted piece of plastic netting that they'd driven over leaving the refuse tip indeed hadn't got tangled somewhere in the car's undertray, the next layer of Dan's life, now everything was separated into the 'keep' pile and the far bigger 'chuck' pile, was to be removed.

"What about this electric sander, I think Peter's one is on its last legs" said Aunt Carmen, having exhumed the oversized plastic box and dusted off the cobwebs.

"Just help yourself - anything you want, you're welcome to".

But now the most painful part, the books and records. There was in fact a charity box for the books, so Dan was feeling much brighter than earlier.

"Don't forget to bring your council tax statement as proof"..

The green overalled attendant waved us through without a look.

"Here's the council tax statement, for proof" Aunt Carmen waved the fluttering piece of paper whilst passing, which must have looked like any old piece of A4.

..to be continued..