You can do you utmost to bury something so that it does not come back to a) Incriminate you b) Cause others to think significantly less of you c) bite you on your bum d) destroy your own perception of yourself.
The word 'bury' I use is not in an actual context involving a deep hole under the patio but to mean conveniently misplacing, stowing away safely or hiding in such a place that only you know the whereabouts and to a certain extent can exert control over its on-going fate.
A garden shed is an ideal place because wives and partners have no compulsion or interest to delve into the dank, dark cobwebbed interior. At the same time such poor conditions, unless it is a sooper-dooper modern insulated and heated shed are not conducive to the storage of personally treasured, monetary valued or perishable items.
The loft may be a consideration especially if there is an accompanying myth of insects, moths and rodents of sufficiently fearful proportions to deter a casual interest by the aforementioned spouses. Just an allusion to a dodgy operating stowaway ladder may be enough of a factor to discourage access. Out of the two options I can certainly attest to the roof void as being the more popular for menfolk to stash embarassing things ranging from an excellent and sequential collection of classic Playboy Magazines, informative and authoritative a publication that it is, vinyl records from the Disco or New Romantic eras, love letters from former girlfriends, soppy gifts from the same, bits of abandoned airfix models ,unwanted and unsolicited gift packs of Brut aftershave.
In a new relationship there can be a stand off over what can be introduced into the new joint home. Items with any association whatsoever with former partners are not generally welcome. An expressed intention to take the stuff to the tip can be seen as a major gesture of understanding and commitment. If ceremoniously removed via the back door there can be a good opportunity to hide the stuff in the car and later transfer via the front door, up and into the loft for a perpetuity of blissful ignorance.
I have recently had cause to seriously consider the undignified consignment of some embarassing things to, at best, a landfill site.
In the course of my Mother having a good sort out ahead of her moving from the longstanding family house I have been confronted with bits of my past and in particular my formative teenage years. At the back of one of the attic storerooms a suitcase was discovered. The contents upon opening have been wicked away for the last 33 years. They represent a major part of my life from age 11 to 15. They are all of my school exercise books from a Grammar School education.
Upon seeing this blast from my past I was completely mortified.
Just about every square inch of every book was covered in stupid and meaningless scribbles,doodles, fountain pen ink-blots, incomplete words and phrases, various spiral shapes in ball point and other rubbish. I flicked through the pages of my exercise books from the many subjects and it was the same sorry show. I had lost any opportunity to exercise a parental right of lecturing on the value of a diligent education by proudly exhibiting my studious exertions to my own offspring.
I had forgotten that I had been a shy and awkward teenager, and a real geek. Over 33 years those painful experiences of puberty and pimples had, in my mind, transformed into a mix of Tom Browns Schooldays, The Breakfast Club, American Pie, High School Musical and Back to The Future (The first one).
In reality and in that time I was not at all cool, not even close to being the leader of the gang or not even that popular because I must have been a little bit weird. To heap on more embarassment amongst the tatty books I found many scrawled references to, obviously, my favourite band of the time.
Who was that in the mid to late 1970's?
A great period of musical transistion, mega stars, anthemic tunes and the emergence of the super groups for the next decade and more.
If I am truthful and admit to it being The Brighouse and Rastrick Brass Band will you think any less of me than you do already after this catalogue of shameful confessions. Where are the bin bags.....?
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