Not only could I carbon date my housework from within the mountain of clothes, but also my life.
I don’t think I’m giving anything away by saying both peaked around 2009.
At the surface is an ever shifting layer of school uniforms, mixed in with a selection of Janet’s clothes that suspiciously always settle near the top. It’s almost as if they’ve been carefully placed there for someone to find?
Digging further I came across a deep layer of clothes from the ‘will definitely need ironing’ period, beneath which was a dense layer of bedding.
Now, it’s at this point my vertigo normally kicks in and I stop burrowing, but for reasons of procrastination, on this particular day I decided to don my head torch, take a deep breath and keep going.
Below the dead sea of duvets I discovered what I can only assume, given the strange hieroglyphic washing symbols, were garments pertaining to the time of the Egyptians; or to give it its proper name, my confused period.
By now I was beginning to unearth ancient artifacts from a bygone age. Decorative pieces made from LEGO, a plastic plate which I imagine was once used for feeding their young, and a prophetic babygrow that had accurately predicted the troubled times of the terrible twos.
Intrigued, I continued digging until I came across a vein of plastic carrier bags? Dozens of them. This was clearly a time of great wealth and prosperity as some appeared to be celebrating the gods of Waitrose and Selfridges.
It was also around here that I unearthed the fossilised remains of what looked to be broccoli and cauliflower. Clues, maybe, as to what the boys diet might once have been. Evidence of a simpler time, without fuss or complaint.
But this was no time for nostalgia. I could see light at the end of the basket, and so, with renewed vigor, I ventured on.
The next period was a time of hand-wash only and delicates. Beautiful pieces that spoke of celebration and ceremonies, parties and nights out.
And then came the biggest surprise of all, because beneath the sea of silks and cashmere, right at the very core of the basket, I hit upon a layer of garments that I didn’t immediately recognise.
There were shirts befitting of a smart dress code. T-shirts I’d long since assumed had been reclassified by Janet as dusters. A cardigan I’d once been able to button up and a jumper that forensics tell me has photographic evidence dating it back to Christmas 2008.
These were my clothes. Fashionable and of their time. Untouched/washed for a generation (of children), and from a time known only as the social life period.
It was like climbing through a wardrobe and discovering Narnia was in fact another wardrobe.
Now if I can just lose this baby weight I may never need to go clothes shopping again.
Janet has less faith and suggested I donate them to the charity shop.
Instead I’ve decided to stuff them at the back of our spare wardrobe of hope. You know, the one already crammed full of size 8 dresses Janet hopes to one day wear again, and the small sized shirts I almost certainly won’t.
In the meantime, I appear to have a mountain of washing that needs doing?