My parents are moving house. They're in the process of selling the home I, along with my two siblings, grew up in. It's a strange feeling.
Being a helpful (as well as emotionally attached) soul, I offered to come up and aid them with the inevitable clear-out. 'I'm not moving junk from one house to another,' said my Dad.
He's right. There are two decades of accumulated rubbish hiding in the darkest corners of the house. 'Useful' items once cherished have been stowed in the attic and forgotten about. Toys. Old school work. Clothes. All now smell old. Unloved.
The process takes three times longer than it needs to: the contents of each box, instead of being thrust into a waiting black bin liner, are examined. Memories come thick and fast and the occasional tear teases at dampening eyes. Childhood concurrently feels long ago and within recent memory.
But it's fun too. In one box we found this:
a tube of Pringles that had been opened and unfinished about ten years ago.
The lid was opened with trepidation. I feared a colony of mould that had somehow developed intelligence or sentience of some sort.
What was inside was far more disturbing.
Ten years and the Pringles looked almost fresh. I have no idea what they put into these things that has managed to slow the aging process to such a painfully unnatural degree but I'm sure Joan Rivers might well be interested.
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