There are times in life when a clean out is required. Changing job. Changing home. And other life-changing moments. So my shredder has become my new best friend. It understands that de-cluttering is more than creating a pile of confetti. So it goes slow. Try and feed in more than two sheets of paper at once and it feigns choking. At first, I thought this was simply poor workmanship. But now I recognise it as part of a greater plan. Now I sit for hours carefully feeding paper in, lining it up carefully so the machine’s metal molars do not become clogged. This is no longer throwing out waste. It is
reviewing life. I do mental gymnastics over which official documents must be retained lest a man with a laminated identity card demands access. I stop to read faded curlicues on postcards and flimsy sheets of airmail paper that were sent with love, even if now gone. And I slowly slip them into a long metal box with Peter Rabbit on the lid. Friends and family are impressed at this sudden activity. They marvel at what was once a jumble of paperwork has been archived in a few boxes labeled in loud black letters. My cat not so. She views this new intimacy as a conflict of interest. She has taken to perching on the side of the shredder, calculating Sphinx eyes watching as the sheets of paper disappear with a slow piscine wriggle. I fear her slowly swishing tail will get caught in the gnashing jaws but I do not have the heart to shoo her away. So I stop. And switch from shredding to stroking. Her purr is metallic. Like a machine.
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