We finally got round to doing some 'filing' in our house recently. That makes it sound very glam and like I was wearing a pencil skirt and following an index system at the time, when in fact I was wearing my pyjamas, and tossing old bills at the dog who would then rip them into tiny pieces (who needs a fancy shredder?!)
Yes in reality, filing is just when the desk starts to bow under the weight of unopened bank statements (I know, I know, won't someone think of the trees?! Blame Chris, not me, I bank online!) and appointment cards and nursery newsletters and the such, so that we finally have to do something about it.
Most of the stuff goes in the bin, and then anything worth keeping gets put in one of four box files. It's all very dull and necessary. I actually found an unopened letter from our pet insurer which was dated the end of November, telling me that the price of Fudge's insurance was about to double. That would probably have been good to know 4 months ago...*sigh* In my defence, a lot of shit was going down in November, and I spent a week of it in hospital, and even managed to get myself diagnosed with two rare conditions. So perusing our renewal quote on the dog insurance wasn't really high on my agenda.
There's always shit left over, at the end of the 'filing', that has nowhere to go. Often times it ends up in the bin also but there's some stuff it's hard to be ruthless over...
Scan photos, from a pregnancy that didn't work out...
Pathway Plans, and minutes of meetings from when I was in care as a teenager...
An instruction booklet for a calculator my Dad gave me, that still has workings out scribbled on it in both his and my Mum's handwriting...
A Bliss DVD about resuscitation that I am supposed to have watched as part of my job- you know, the job I haven't been to in over 7 months...
What am I supposed to do with this shit? There is no box file for "Things that make me feel weird" (an oversight on our part, it seems). In the end they sat in a pile on the table for a couple of days until I couldn't bear looking at them anymore and they got shoved back where they came from- the deepest darkest recesses of the desk (and my mind).
And then just a few days after our filing extravaganza this arrived in the post:
A letter, about the whooping cough vaccine, being offered to women who are more than 28 weeks pregnant. Yes, it would appear my GP surgery still think I am pregnant. 33 weeks pregnant to be precise. This is despite the fact that they have received my discharge summary from St Mary's Hospital, where I had my miscarriage medically managed last October, and correspondence from Sheffield Centre for Trophoblastic Disease who are still testing my urine every fortnight following my Molar diagnosis.
There was no doubt where this letter was going- straight in the bin.
If only filing my feelings were as easy.
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