Just before Christmas, Mr C embarked on the annual pilgrimage to unearth the Christmas tree stand from the shed. Each year in early January, he returns it to its home, and then, throughout the course of the year, it gets shifted in the search for garden tools and lawnmower, paintbrushes and dust sheets, bikes and bike racks. In May, or thereabouts, the garden furniture is retrieved, and sometimes the camping equipment, although less frequently of late. One day I will blog about the camping trips which have almost ended my third marriage, but all in good time.
As the weather warms up, the half full bags of charcoal, and barbecue accessories are recovered, and put to good use (in a good Summer, such as the last one). And at the end of the year, when the weather conditions are at their least favourable, and the light is at its darkest, the full to bursting shed is invariably emptied, to a soundtrack of expletives. Many things are thrown out of the way and broken, or trampled underfoot. The excellent storage system which I introduce each year when the end of Summer approaches and all of my favourite garden beautifications (or in Mr C's language -'tat') are packed away, is turned upside down, so that when I go to find things, I am faced with a mountain of tangled bikes and rubble.
This year was slightly different, as he chose to look for the stand on a day when he had a little more time, and the weather was milder, enabling him to adopt a calmer and more systematic approach. He emptied the shed of the lawnmower and bikes, instead of just clambering over them, and began to search an area where he thought the stand might be hidden. In a dark corner, housing some cobbled together bookshelves, which had previously held my teaching resources, which we recycled in the Summer, he unearthed a big black heavy plastic box, with a rusted silver lock on the front. Several searches have taken place for this box since I moved into this house 17 years ago, but all have proved fruitless. So how wonderful, that when he was looking for something else, he should come across this treasure trove of mine. I had long given up hope that it would ever be found, and had convinced myself that I had sent it off to the tip in one of my (rare) purges to rid my life of clutter and unproductive sentimentality.
But here it was, my record box, full of nostalgia. The records I listened to as a child, my Mum's favourites that she played full volume as she did the housework, the albums that were the foundations on which my love of music was built. Most of them were played over and over again, and when I listen to them now, I still know every single word, every scratch and what song comes next. I can tell you where each album came from - the Grease album that Santa forgot to wrap, and left in the boot of my Mum's car along with a wooden recorder on Christmas morning, instead of with the rest of my presents (I was a bit spooked by that), Upstairs at Eric's that Jacqui Wright bought for me for my 14th birthday, and Super Trooper, excitedly purchased from Tesco at Weston Favell with my birthday money.
There is so much wrapped up in this box, so many experiences that my children will never know, with their new friends Spotify and Alexa. They will never understand the thrill of taking a brand new album out of its sleeve, and the satisfying bump as the needle hits the record and the static crackle just before the sound arrives. Music is now available on tap, which is great, but for me some of the pleasure came from having to wait for it, or save for it. I can think of many albums that brought me close to tears - Regatta de Blanc, No Parlez and others without French titles also. Lying on my bed after having my heart broken, listening to Otis Redding on repeat. And listening to favourite albums with my friends, singing along at the tops of our voices until my Dad shouted "turn that bloody racket off!" Or playing them at the wrong speed so that it sounded like Pinky and Perky were singing.
I didn't mind tapes either, although it drove me crackers when they got chewed up. And I felt very let down by CDs, as I remember the initial hype, with claims that you could spread jam on them, or stab them with a compass and they would still play. The CD player in my car says no!
So, I am delighted that I still have a relatively tidy shed for the time of year, and that the stand will shortly be returning to its base. And I also now have a massive record box taking up precious space in my writing den, although I haven't actually been bothered to listen to any of the records apart from on the day they were discovered, because it is so much of a faff to wrestle with paper sleeves and album covers and the need to listen to every song, even the ones you don't like, and to change it every half hour or just listen to the same songs over and over again. So much easier to listen to the radio or ask Alexa for help. Which is no doubt the reason why the box ended up in the dark smelly shed in the first place, and may even return there before too long!
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