The last time I visited my parents, I came away with a bootload: not of my mother’s green tomato chutney, thankfully, or any of the other preserves she makes (which I would have welcomed), or even a crate of damson gin (which would have been a very positive result). No, instead it was a load of “stuff” – some of which they had inherited themselves, they no longer wanted but could not, I suspect, face disposing of themselves.
Now, I count myself as extremely fortunate: I have parents on this side of the grave, active in both mind and body, and considerate enough of their children to have granted us all, some years ago, Power of Attorney, well in advance of this being required. Compared to many of my peers, this makes me lucky indeed. They also have the self-awareness to know that, in the words of George Harrison, “all things must pass”, and that at some point they will leave behind them all that they have accumulated during their time on earth: and goodness, there’s a lot of it.
Consumer culture
They belong to the first generation born into the mass consumer culture which was specifically aimed at them, from Penguin paperbacks to changing fashions in clothing and footwear, to 45rpm singles. “Teenagers” were a demographic created in the 40s, and present in the UK from the 50s onwards. By then, clothes rationing had ended (in 1949) and the first wave of teenagers, the “Teddy Boys” or “Teds” were able to spend £20 – two weeks’ wages – on a suit. Arthur Seaton, the protagonist in Sillitoe’s 1958 debut novel Saturday Night and Sunday Morning, was one such follower of fashion. As the author said of the character and his wardrobe: “They were his riches, and he told himself that money paid-out on clothes was a sensible investment because it made him feel good as well as look good.”
This was the first generation able to, as Pools winner Viv Nicholson put it in 1961, “spend, spend, spend”. Growing up as they did in the postwar boom of the 50s, the prime minister was able to say “Most of our people have never had it so good” (and yes, the more popular version “You’ve never had it so good” is a misquotation).
Now, I think my mother’s clothes from Biba and Dorothy Perkins have, like those establishments themselves, disappeared into the ether, but the Penguins and singles, EPs and albums still remain, despite her having nothing to play them on. Likewise her extensive collection of calico china, acquired years before its usage in Wetherspoons. More books, inherited from her parents, as well as a grandfather clock and various ornaments ranging from the decorative to the hideous. After all, did any trip abroad really happen if we fail to bring some mementoes home? Shelves, occasional tables, sideboards are all the British Museum in miniature, spoils of our escape from these shores, sole reminders of our sojourns.
And so many photos. I get it, as a proud parent and grandparent myself. But so many photos in silver frames, arranged three or four deep, possibly re-arranged for the arrival of specific offspring.
So much stuff; and the hold it has on us
Two close friends have recently become intentionally homeless; they are living the “van life”, and will be spending months abroad from now on, in an admittedly quite spacious motorhome. Despite their desire never to own bricks and mortar again, they have contributed towards the £1bn pa business that is now self-storage space, an industry growing at a staggering 7% yearly. I have asked them why they are placing items in storage they cannot fit into their “RV”; no clear answer emerges. It’s hard to let go of items be they sentimental (her mother’s china) or practical (his tool kits).
Our houses are now 20% smaller than those our parents owned in the 70s. If we can’t fit inherited furniture in and don’t want to store it, then try selling it: but no-one wants it. “Brown furniture” – the mahogany, oak, walnut pieces built in the two centuries before the war – is worth half what it was. We neither have the space for it nor the desire, thanks to brainwashing by Ikea and too much Scandi Noir on TV. Talking of which, try disposing of electronic goods; if it can’t fit in your hand, no-one wants it, so there are tonnes of TVs, VCRs, DVD players and music centres gathering dust which will all go to landfill.
Let alone enough redundant cables for the above and for phones long since dead to stretch from here to Andromeda. And this will all need sorting out, at some point, and we Gen Xer’s have nowhere to put it and nowhere to sell it and an understandable reluctance to chuck our parent’s stuff into the skip.
I will leave you with one note
Last year, I tried (and failed) to sell my house. I got so close that almost all of my belongings were in storage for six months, bar my clothes and hi-fi.
Reader: there was only one thing I missed. Cooking utensils. All those books, and photos and treasures from foreign climes – didn’t miss any of them.
“Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful” as William Morris exhorted us. On that basis, I just need my cooking knives, a couple of large pots and dishes, and my beloved beside me.
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