The Museum of Me

Categories: life, mrs-tiggywinkle, translation

Date: 20 May 2009 18:44:45

It has been somewhat quiet at Tiggywinkle Translations for some, well, weeks, really so Mrs Tiggywinkle has been bustling around making up for all those hours spent at the translation face when she might have been domestically employed doing the following:

Ironing (obviously...this is Mrs Tiggywinkle's real raison d'etre)

Laundry

Hand washing

Planting up window boxes

Sorting out admin for the German Society

Sorting out unwanted items

Taking said items to the charity shop

There then came a point when all the fluffy stuff was done and there was no putting off the nightmare any longer: scary cupboard no. 1. This is located in the ex-Lödgerin's room and has somehow, in the 18 months since she left, acquired all sorts of valuable and indispensable - oh yes, VERY indispensable - items.

I think (and Mrs Tiggywinkle agrees with me) that deep down I must be some sort of frustrated museum curator. Can anyone explain why I have the wage slips dating back to my first summer holiday job when I was 16? or every bank statement ever issued to me starting from a similar point in my life?

I have rediscovered that in my school days I started a collection of certificates. Not only do I have the public school-leaving exam certificates in my collection, I also have a certificate for writing a highly commended essay about chocolate when I was 7 years old - from none other than Cadbury's. My other accomplishments were in swimming, singing, acting (distinction - woo-hoo) and performance. Somewhat less believably I also managed to stretch my skills to include ballet, tap (ok - so that's what little girls do when they are primary school age) AND athletics and gymnastics!! These certificates have my name on them...athletics and gymnastics?! They must date from a time I have since blotted from my memory. Was the torture greater for me or the teacher?

Now that I have kept all this stuff for so long, it almost seems a waste to destroy it all. I mean, doesn't someone want to open a museum dedicated to me? If they needed to know how much my gas bill was in the second quarter of 1992, they would be able to find out and exclaim over the massive rise in prices, shake their heads and mutter fond memories of the good old days or they could exclaim in wonder over the existence of a good, old, now obsolete, student grant.

The shredder is sharpening its steely teeth eager to obliterate this snapshot of social history. What do I do with it: keep or shred? And if I keep it, gentle reader, where do I store it? The only other scary cupboard (which is next on the hit list) in the rose-covered cottage is already full.

Do you keep all your paperwork? If so, where? And what for exactly?

Thoughts on this agonising dilemma will be gratefully received.