Seventies shot.jpg

I'm Jaq. 

Warning: Contains a little bit of potty-mouthed humour where necessary and an overuse of coconut oil. I also eye off other people's whisky, as depicted here. 

Just Throwing it Out There

Just Throwing it Out There

Photo by  Rapha Alves  on  Unsplash

Photo by Rapha Alves on Unsplash

The endless fight to get rid of needless crap may force some overdue conversations at home. 

I have no idea how we manage to buy and store so much superfluous crap. How do we have the time to go out and curate such a manic collection of shit that is hardly used, and yet we seem to schlep it from one abode to another?

I cracked it and declared we were having a garage sale to get rid of ‘stuff’. It was at this point that the family bolted to save their prized possessions from me and my rampage against rubbish.

I am known to be a formidable chucker. It’s a Virgo trait. We like our surroundings clear, allowing creative juices to flow.  I may also be a control freak who can’t stand mess and disorder.

So, The Gent runs off to hide his coveted (and completely under-used) putter and the girls frantically save various items of clothing, stuff toys and jars of homemade slime from an untimely death, while I tear apart each room discharging my draconian justice on all things deemed daggy, unusable and pointless. The Gent starts nervously twitching, thinking that he may well find himself on the heap so he heads to Bunnings to get a ‘thing’ for the ‘how’s-your-father’.

Little does he realise that this absence enables my campaign to go off the books into black ops. With The Gent out of the house I could forage for all sorts of crapola.

Who, for the love of Pete hangs on to a hounds tooth jacket?

For those that don’t know what a hounds tooth jacket is, just think Horse and Hound and Henry Higgins. All that is missing is a pipe and cravat. To be fair, The Gent even in his mid-forties still looks about 16, so I am sure it was an attempt in his early career to look serious and professional, but if he had ever worn it in my presence back in the day at a party, I would have asked him what uni course he taught and politely left it at that.


A box of electrical cables. No appliances attached to them, but a random box of computer and equipment cables. Thank God I didn’t find them in the boot of the car otherwise I would have been forced to ask some pretty uncomfortable questions.


Spare ugly door handles.  Maybe to go on the equally ugly doors that he is planning to hang in the already, ugly falling down about-to-be renovated house?


Sticks.  Nothing more, just sticks. Not garden stakes which I understand the use for, but sticks. These are apparently part of every home handy-man’s tool box. They help remove things from places, or push or tighten other things, or whack things into other things. You mean like a set of pliers a screwdriver or a hammer? 


Caps. Oh my sooooo many caps, from every techie convention and golf day on the planet. How many caps does one person need? And I get a hard time about shoes! I understand the need for about five caps. Going to the football, playing golf, DIY days (using those oh so helpful sticks from before), exercising and a perhaps a dress cap for upmarket BBQs to protect ones alabaster skin, but 50 caps? That is selfishly depriving others of the chance to wear a cap that says, ‘DILF on Duty’.


The old brown dressing gown. For anyone unaware, The Gent’s brown dressing gown is actually quite famous and you can read more about it here. In fact it could have its own weekly column about its adventures in taking out bins, cleaning gutters, swapping gas bottles on BBQ’s and running conference calls.


Eventually The Gent comes home from Bunnings with pool supplies and sticks, to discover his favourite dinner suit has made its way on to the tas de merde . The conversation goes something like this.

The Gent: ‘What is my dinner suit doing on the pile?’

Moi: ‘That is your old dinner suit, remember we bought you a new one.’

The Gent: ‘But that’s a good dinner suit.’

Moi: ‘Yes honey but it’s old and doesn’t fit you any more, hence the new dinner suit.’

The Gent: ‘But we bought that in Italy.’

Moi: ‘True, but it doesn’t fit you anymore.’

The Gent: ‘But it’s Armani.’

Moi: ‘Also true, but it doesn’t fit you.’

The Gent: ‘But it may come back into fashion.’

Moi: ‘Unlikely, but even if we assume the fashion gods have a unmovable force to reinstate pleats , IT DOESN’T FIT YOU.’

The Gent: ‘But we paid good money for that suit.’

Moi: ‘Oh for fuck’s sake!’

Sound familiar?  

I do have to clarify that the reason we had to buy The Gent a new dinner suit, apart from the unpleasant pleat situation, is because he has lost weight and cutting a finer line so it's more of a brag than a complaint. 

When I put it out that I was writing this article,  I was not surprised to hear the list of similarly unwanted rot women have been trying to set fire to for years. Some of this may be lingering at your house or you may suddenly be thankful you don't have these problems to contend with. 

  • Photo collages of the ex (issues much?)
  • Tank tops from Thailand with beer logos (you should be on Border Security with that blurry face treatment)
  • A mother-in-law (ouch!)
  • Porn collection (what are you, 14?)
  • Man bag (I can't even)
  • A flat Sherrin footy (pause for juvenile flat ball joke)
  • Underwear with holes in them (endorsed by the Celibacy Association of Australia)

If you have an unusual item that your darling beloved just can't see CHUCKED, I would love to hear it, leave a comment below. We need to support each other.

You can follow more of my unfiltered fancies on Twitsies @JaquelynMuller , Insties @JaquelynMullerBooks and Facies @JaqMullerWriter

It's What's on the Inside

It's What's on the Inside

I met Marian Keyes and said...

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