ONE OF the clearest signs of the onset of autumn for me is a strange — and obviously unseasonable — need to “spring clean” (or perhaps that should be “fall-out”). Bearing in mind that I have never been the kind of woman who takes much pleasure in the chores that so many other women — at least according to a recent survey — enjoy more than sex, this annual period of clearing up and turning out is a painful time for everyone.
Mr R, who was initially rather amused by the sight of me running a feather duster across the artefacts of his old life, became quieter and quieter as the days progressed and more of his things (among them a jar of the ex-Mrs R’s crab-apple jelly dated 1986 and a wooden Tyrolean doll with a pipe, a fishing rod and a Freddie Mercury moustache) disappeared into black plastic bin liners.
On Friday, after returning home to find another sinister pile of items — including several of his favourite long-playing records and a much-thumbed 1979 signed copy of Alex Comfort’s The Joy of Sex — arranged around a sign saying “Do these have any special sentimental value or can they be chucked?”, he ran away to Wales.
His defection served only to make me even more determined to rid the farthest reaches of the house of the flotsam and jetsam from his previous life (three dusty photo albums filled with the images of blondes past, a bright yellow cashmere V-neck and two paisley cravats . . .). With hindsight, perhaps he wouldn’t have been so keen to disappear — along with his children and our collective dogs — if my madness had been restricted to what I regard as home improvement. But I was also obsessed with self-improvement, which succeeded only — by day three of my “detox for life” programme — in making me even more irritable. (It wasn’t just the farthest reaches of Mr R’s house that were being sluiced out, it was the farthest reaches of me.)
There is nothing particularly new in this autumnal folly. My need to take control of my life and make some kind of new start at the beginning of the academic year was as strong in my extravagant past as it is now, although back then it involved as much buying in as it did turning out. New clothes would be purchased, an expensive new fitness programme would be started (but never finished) and the house-that-finally-did-sell would be filled with the new accessories of the season to replace the ones I had just thrown out. Why, I would even — as the summer flowers faded — buy a new garden (and pay someone to plant it). The most dramatic difference between then and now is that this year I have discovered the wonders of DIY.
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Without the vast array of support I used to employ (from nannies to contract cleaners) to help me to complete my annual fall-out, I have not only saved money but raised my fitness levels (I have, in effect, become my own personal trainer). What’s more, in place of the string of “self-improvement experts” who might, in the past, have advised me to take Pilates classes, have Botox injections or eat a gluten- free diet in my bid to better myself, I have turned into my very own life-coach. At the end of the two-week period, during which I have adhered to a ruthless self-imposed (and self-made) regimen of diet and exercise, I am feeling better than I have done since, well, last autumn (or maybe the one before).
By cutting out paid staff, red wine, wheat and caffeine, then implementing a new fitness programme (lugging black bin liners up and down stairs, scrubbing, sweeping, scouring and so on), I have achieved at home something I could never have done in the gym. In fact, by drinking five litres of water a day and consuming a minimum of eight pieces of fruit, I may have gone farther than I have ever done before and created my very own home colonic irrigation system. After just a fortnight spent de-cluttering my life, I feel as squeaky clean as the kitchen cupboards and as full of potential for rebirth as the window boxes I have packed with bulbs. Six pounds and 47 black bin liners lighter, I am ready for anything.
Even the fall-out from Mr R’s reaction to my annual fall-out . . .