Over the last couple of weeks, following the death of my brother, I found myself volunteering to sift through his belongings, particularly that in the workshop/attic at his home. For a non-materialistic man of few possessions, he certainly left a lot of stuff.
It was like Tom Waits' 'Soldiers Things', and not a little daunting.
The problem with engineers (and George was an electrician, electronics specialist, mechanic and a navy weapons technician), is that nothing gets thrown away. Switches; plugs; connectors; elements; dial pots; diodes; resistors; capacitors; valves; servo motors; batteries; pumps; springs; letraset; hinges; catches; handles; cables; wires; string; screws; car mirrors: bluetac.
Not to mention eight vcr recorders. At least fourteen remote controls, and countless more discarded power units.
And computers, and not just the ones he built; it was like a PC museum.
And knots: as an ex-sailor his talent with knots was comprehensive and effortless, and I admit that I desecrated a few in opening the numerous bags that contained his worldly belongings. Unable to replicate his handiwork, I could only re-tie them with an inadequately utilitarian half-hitch.
And containers. Anything that could hold components; jam jars, film cartons, canisters: and of course, the shed-dwellers' staple, tobacco tins, full of screws; nails; nuts; bolts; fuses; rawlplugs; washers; scalpel blades; chalk; ad infinitum.
Two tobacco tins feature in the photo: one with dog-ends, the other sugar cubes. I didn't understand the sugar cubes, it took my mother to explain that he had a sweet tooth, and often didn't get enough in his tea whilst on the road.
And used rounds. George was target shooter, who had surrendered in his firearms and live ammo when handguns and automatic weapons were outlawed following Dunblain. Didn't throw out the spent cartridges though. (As I waded through the accumulated wealth of spare parts, I half-dreaded unearthing a revolver or some live ammunition, long forgotten beneath the "shed strata". What would I do? Refuse to touch it and call the police? Or enact my Travis Bickle fantasy in front of a mirror before taking it home to show my mates in the pub?)
No, George wasn't the kind of bloke who left firearms lying around. Just stuff, and lots of it.
Touchingly he had kept the collar of his long-deceased dog Bruce (a dog chosen from the rescue centre because he was the ugliest and least friendly animal there, and George knew no-one else would take him) and Christmas cards from his niece Kelly, which she had hand-made at infant school. And his diaries from his teenage years include the week in 1964 in which each day is marked "nothing to do".
I didn't know George well, he was nine years older and left home for the sea when I was small, but after sharing his workspace for a few days I feel that I did a little catching up.
Yes, for a man of few possessions he left a lot of stuff, and it was all the product of an active life spent making things work, and you can't knock that.
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