If I were to do a time audit on my activities this year I think the primary occupation would be Tidying Up For Hopeless People. Let's see...I reorganised and cleaned the entire Overlander laundry, store room and cleaning room, Duncan's room, Duncan's boat, Duncan's ute, Duncan, Ian's caravan, my bus three times, a carport, a bush camp behind the roadhouse, the aged care kitchen, Nita's room, Greta's room, Patrick's room, Gary's kitchen, my entire house, the bush camp, the fire station personal protective gear room, the brigade kitchen, the laundry and store rooms at Paddy's flat, and, by osmosis, Gary's bathroom.
Currently I am on load 5 of George's washing. If any of you single bloke readers are reading this post, go out and get yourself a damn good woman and make sure she's around when you get dodderingly old, because trust me, you are going to need her - otherwise you will sink into a pit of your own filth, with ancient decaying underpants, faded hardware receipts, greasy car parts and six thousand old prescription boxes stuffed under your sagging, mouse-eaten mattress which is covered with blankets that were last washed in 1894 when your great-grandfather died in them. Most women will not tolerate this and even if angry will generally fling themselves into sorting out your horrid old laundry pile and washing things, or at least burning them, before returning to more important things such as their doctoral dissertations, feminist literature and googling affordable aged care facilities where they can dump you in the middle of the night.
My hallway looks like a 1920's laundry sweatshop. Gary has just dropped his basketload off as well, and my lot is sitting next to George's old blankets; I'm pretty sure I just saw them move. Ugh. Gary meanwhile is back at the camp with the animals, chopping firewood, fuelling up the generator and jerry-rigging an aerial for the TV. I'm going to sleep here at the house tonight as I have to work early, and also because Gary ate a lot of chilli con carne last night; I have limits, especially when it comes to sharing a swag with someone who has consumed a lot of beans.
So poor George has no one to look after him - no family or friends to turn to, having lived the hermit life of a prospector for so long. People in town help him out a bit here and there, but Gary and I can see that living alone at the camp has just been too much for him. Now that he's in hospital he's worrying about his phone bill and things like that, so I said not to worry, I'll make sure it gets paid on time, check his mail and get things sorted for him at respite care if they send him back to Meeka. If he can manage to move out of respite care, we can put him in the caravan and help him out.
Meanwhile, as I tidy up everyone else, the contents of my handbag tell the tale of my own disarray; rummaging in it tonight for my keys I found a pair of fire-fighter gloves, 7 old shoppping lists, a bag of boiled peas and carrots for Ethel, pliers, underpants, two bras and what appears to be part of a fridge.
But I better not throw any of it out - you never know what might come in handy.
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