I was in the attic on Monday night, searching for the photo of me with Stripper Santa. I got really freaked out. My panic initially revolved around where the effing hell the Stripper Santa photo had gone. Are you one of those people that if they lose something are incapable of thinking or doing anything else until they find it again? I am. So I was flinging stuff around in an increasingly deranged fashion. (I’m going to be in serious trouble next time Husband looks in there.) After two hours of sneezing and swearing and smashing my arm and almost falling through the ceiling, I finally found the bloody thing. I also discovered lots of freaky stuff, including …
My HSC study notes
Every birthday card since I was born
An E.T doll with battery-operated, flashing eyes
A plastic bag filled with black sand from Hawaii
A June, 1959 copy of National Geographic (coincidentally containing a photograph of a Hawaiian black sand beach)
A Frenz Of The Enz badge
My high school uniform
A replica Crowded House jacket a friend painted for me
A black & white polka-dotted Morrissey Edmiston jacket
Two fossilised shells
A novel I wrote at age 11 called Scamp the Wonder Dog. (“By the same author: The Farnams on Faranite – the story of Charlie, Champ, his wife and their children. Faranite is a planet where one thousand familys emigrat in 2200. When the earth disintergrated.” reads the back flap.)
All my school report cards – primary and secondary
My extensive matchbox collection
Some of first dog’s teeth in a black plastic box
A framed cartoon drawing of a friend I had a secret crush on, tied naked to a four-poster bed (birthday gift)
Fortunately I wasn’t looking for the Stripper Santa photo last night, as I currently require a walking frame after attending a pilates class run by Ghenghis Khan reincarnated as a perky gym instructor called Jackie.
More Like Scary Alana. Seriously, it sounds like you could be on one of those Foxtel programs about Hoarders “Clean House Castlecraig”
I can however relate to the part about being totally psychotic until what ever I am looking for is found. Usually wallet/keys/glasses of hubby, who is standing in the middle of the kitchen, hands in the air bleating that we have moved/taken/eaten whatever it is he has stolen. He has even been knowwn to say that it is a conspiracy aimed at driving him insane. Driving?
I know, I know, that’s why I called it my “scary” attic.
Oh weird as this may sound i am impressed and slightly jealous that you’re even allowed in the loft ! Our loft is a strictly ‘man only ‘ zone . . . I think behind the xmas decs and 80’s vinyl collection, he keeps a couple of ‘loft ‘ girls up there . . . Just to make going in the loft less of a chore for him ! X
I don’t think I will be allowed into the loft anymore when he sees the mess I’ve made.