This box, inflammable, unrot-able, will do. It’s metal, embellished with classical figures, kneeling, reaping, fighting, kissing: appropriate for describing a lifetime even if not the one within.
The lid opens nicely; a good fit.
one pair rugby socks, school number clearly marked on the tops;
a single rugby boot (muddy);
flyers for gigs of long lost nights (Soundwave? Superslim?);
CDs I must have pilfered along the way but God knows why – Squeeze, Fucking Take That and Party? Who did I nick them off?;
an unopened packet of condoms, (depressing - I remember that weekend);
thirteen photos of Bonzo, one of them shrugged up to a little me, ecstatic;
an unused soapstone chillum;
a couple of busted videos labelled 'party' (did I ever record a party? I don’t recall having a video camera. I surely would);
dog-faced driftwood from Blue Anchor Bay, near Watchet in Somerset;
naff house sign, Happy Daze - ours;
dead snake I found in Malaysia, boxed;
copious amounts of joss sticks;
a pot of tiger balm, not much left;
tin wall plaque featuring large red moped;
an exquisitely wrapped but empty little present (what was it? who was it from?);
a Father Christmas hat, wine-stained;
a wadge of letters in violet ink with circles around every i - hers;
old motor insurance policy, umpteen pages;
wage slips from twenty years ago when I was earning a hell of a lot more than I am now.
Time to shut the box. I guess the mud from the rugby boot could be usefully analysed. I can’t see that, otherwise in a hundred years, the contents of my Lifetime Box will fascinate the twenty second centurions.
I’ll bury it now.