A drill and a baseball bat

A lot can be accomplished with an electric drill and a baseball bat. I learnt this last weekend when my ex finally came to get the rest of his stuff.

No, I didn’t murder him with a drill and baseball bat if that’s what you’re thinking. If I was that way inclined, I’d only need my words. When you’ve lived with someone for 10 years, studied their damaged heart and are an expert words marksman – that direct hit has the power to go off like a slow-motion grenade inside someone. However, I’ve got morals and I’d never do that – the grenade would get me too anyway, that’s what happens when you have a conscious. You can’t shatter someone else and not shatter yourself. He tried using words to cut me up during our marriage, but I don’t have his damaged soul, so they only cut me down for a beat. Then I got myself back up, unharmed – hurt, but unharmed. I know myself so nobody else has the power to tell me who I am.

I’d been waiting for the day the rest of his stuff was out of my house, drawing plans and pictures in my head of how I’d decorate the guestroom. How I’d re-arrange the kitchen and living room. I couldn’t wait! Reclaiming your space is one of the great joys of being single. Since he left, I’ve been joyously stamping my personality and eclectic taste all over the place, like a dog peeing on their territory.

I gritted my teeth as him and his van man tramped dirt through my house moving furniture and boxes out. Repeating silently to myself, “this is the last of it.” When they were finished and gone, I ran around opening windows and the back door, cleaned and disinfected everything then got the burning sage out and sage’d everywhere.

Last I flung open the guestroom door and my face dropped, it still had old furniture and rubbish in it! Not the empty space I was expecting. I should have known; he’d never been reliable. My disappointment was palpable, it had a taste – or maybe that was anger, does anger taste? Makes sense, it permeates every pore. I’d already purchased all the things I needed to redecorate this room, but it needed to be a blank canvas before I could start. Now I had a room full of his junk to deal with. A wonky wardrobe, a set of broken drawers, a bookcase and some boxes.

I grabbed a box, ran it downstairs then outside my back door and flung it across the courtyard. My lovely neighbours (and friends) were gardening and popped their heads over the fence to ask if I was ok. “I see he’s finally taken his stuff, that must be a relief,” Sarah said sympathetically. Her husband Brian just made a sympathetic face, he’s a man of few words. “Well it would be,” I answered, “if he’d actually taken it all!” Explaining the issue, Brian offered, “would you like to borrow the electric drill?”

So, that’s how I ended up in an upstairs bedroom surrounded by unwanted furniture with an electric drill in my hands. I’d never used one, Sarah had given me instructions and a quick over-the-fence demonstration though. I’d always been apprehensive of power tools; I can be clumsy so thought they weren’t really a good fit for me. But here we were, me, my borrowed electric drill and my determination that this bloody bedroom would be cleared today, one way or the other.

Needless to say; I had no idea what I was doing. I just took every screw out of the old wardrobe I could find. It was surprisingly satisfying, brrrr and ping, another screw would drop on the laminate floor. When I couldn’t find any more screws, I stood frowning at the damn wardrobe because it was still standing there, like nothing had happened. Tearing back downstairs and into the garden shed, I found the baseball bat. Back in the guestroom I gave the wardrobe a good whack with the bat then leapt to safety as the wardrobe panels crashed to the floor in different directions. “Are you alright?” Sarah was yelling up from her garden. I poked my head out the window and gave her the thumps up.

It took me hours to take each panel and drawer downstairs and out into the back garden. Some were heavy and awkward shaped, plus Victorian staircases aren’t generous, so it wasn’t the easiest of jobs. I didn’t give up until it was all done, and I was standing in a room, alone with only a drill, a bat and a satisfied smile on my face.

Whoever said old dogs can’t learn new tricks was talking utter bollocks. A few days on I’ve been lovingly redecorating and furnishing my guestroom in preparation for the day I can again have friends to stay. I can’t wait!

Published by JoJo

Confessional writer, starting over at 50 - I promise you brutal honestly with a few laughs along the way.

15 thoughts on “A drill and a baseball bat

  1. Good on yer! I bet it was satisfying even though it was tiring and now let’s hope this is the end of your trials. Years ago my next door neighbour was in something of the same situation with a husband who just refused to come and collect all his stuff, so in desperation, she packed it all up in plastic sacks and left it out for the trash collection. His stuff included CDs and computer discs which were ‘terribly important’ to him apparently. She then rang him and told him where they were and he had the option to either get there that night and collect them or have them taken away early next morning. He came that night with a hire van and removed them.

    Liked by 1 person

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