Tiny Living (part 1)
Any half-awake materialist well knows that which you hold, holds you Tom Robbins
I’ve just had a nap on this balmy cloudy Sunday afternoon and woke up feeling like Alice after a magic potion. My surroundings have shrunk. I now live on a tiny island, in a tiny town, in a tiny house. Twenty square metres of house to be precise. In which fits : a single bed, that is on coasters and squeaks in alarm after a mere wiggle, a wardrobe (not magic I have tried it, it leads to my socks and some indeterminable essential oils) a desk and chair, two beige satin trimmed light fittings, a heater, a bookshelf, a neatly sized but loudly humming fridge, one long mirror, a chest of drawers and a repainted wooden wash sideboard. This item houses : a kettle, toaster, plug in oven, two plate stove and cutlery drawer. All of the above is clustered within this space plus a medium size Scottish Terrier and his small bed and one average size middle age human female. It is a feat of grand planning and one which may subsequently lead to a nervous breakdown.
I truly wanted this. The chalet or shed as I am wont to christen it, is, as an estate agent might say ‘bijou’. The toilet and shower are down a path, across a lawn, down again some steep and curving steeps and nestled by the house. It is a grand old house up here on a hill, built originally for admiralty officers that manned the massive hulking stone fort that guards the bay. Slate clad, lichen covered roof tiles and a garden full of ancient trees and shrubs on well-tended levels. It has been in the family for a few generations. In a caravan in the garden there is a young Brazilian Chef . We share the far away bathroom. So far, I have burst in on him showering with much embarrassment and he has waited patiently on the gravel outside for me to finish my morning poo as I vainly flap about inside trying to remove any lingering smells.
So back my Tiny Life. After a year of shedding a partner, a few paintings, many plants, lots of books, some furniture, three jobs, a whole community of wonderfully diverse and creative friends, I left South Africa after decades with just 30kgs of luggage and the aforementioned hairy dog.
Arriving in Ireland I seems to stumble upon room after room, garage after garage filled with stuff. This was the bulky detritus of my family’s passion for books, art, materials and things. Sentimental things, practical things, possibly useful things. In Africa these types of items are easy to bequeath on people. Every spare plank, elderly chair, old tool or half used pot of paint is received gratefully and used speedily. In first world countries these things are jarringly space invasive and fill up cupboards, sheds and containers with no joy or hope for use. Perhaps they’ll be recycled or land-filled but the amount of Stuff is staggering. I climbed into some Stuff clearing at my sister’s flat. She’s artistic, messy and creative, all in a two bedroomed upstairs council flat. It’s a fire hazard. Stacks of canvas, shelves of books, papier mache sculptures gathering dust and perhaps even skin cells. Skin cells always spring to mind at times like this. I sneeze and soldier on. It was grim and depressing. Once it had started to happen I began to vaunt my prowess at clearing stuff. I was the Celtic Marie Kondo. Clear the Stuff and the Zen of Calm will arrive.
It didn’t stop me from trawling the local secondhand shops for shoes, warm clothes and lovely items for myself. I managed to quadruple my own stuff in four months. That was a shock. Marie Kondo my arse. But the Tiny Life was my flag and symbol and you know what they say about symbols? Symbols are for the symbol minded. So car-less and proud of it, cash poor but rich on ideas I signed up for a course in Sustainable Horticulture in this gem of a village on the edge of the Atlantic on the South West coast. It’s a place of contradictions this little town of Kinsale but I made it my home. The shed was pretty much the only option as I had put up requests on the Facebook page and drew a blank. The idea of sharing accommodation with other students filled me with dread and images of food encrusted pots lingering in sinks. So the shed it was and I turned up with what I thought were the essentials. The dog, a very fluffy blanket, winter clothes and some herbal tea.
I spent nine months exactly in the ‘Shed’ and it was full of lessons for me. When living in a tiny space storage rules. A regular deep clean is essential and this poses problems (where do I move stuff in a tiny space?) Having a wet/dirty porch or verandah to take off wet coats and muddy boots is a huge necessity during winter. Your kitchen and bedroom shouldn’t be too close or attached or that delightful curry will haunt your dreams. Running water really helps. Condensation is a thing and dog beds on floors, mats and beds against walls will gather moisture in the relentlessly damp Irish climate.
I became just a little obsessed with the idea of moving onto a boat and meet a very ebullient character on the bus one day who told me that he lived on his boat in the marina. So I went for tea. Ralph, the self-proclaimed ‘only communist in the village’ made me a nice cuppa and we ate scones from the local shop. By the nature of odd things, generosity and not a small amount of intrepidation by May I was installed in his boat (with the dog) the challenge of tiny living had really just begun.
