The neighbours are away, which means Jon and I can use the shared garden for whatever we want. We could read our books in the sun. We could invite our friends over for a party. But there’s only one thing I want to do: burn all my bank statements from 2015.
You probably think I’m a hoarder. The kind of person who meticulously archives the mundane: receipts, copies of the Radio Times, a collection of 46 premium miniature plastic animals who observe every moment of my life with their tiny, judgemental eyes. But in fact, I only own 46 of the objects I just mentioned. And they’re going to be really valuable one day.
I admit I can’t stop buying books from Oxfam. There are so many books in our flat that if you burned it down, it wouldn’t just be arson, it would be an act of fascist censorship. And also murder, because I rarely leave the flat. So there’s that to consider. Basically I am against you burning down my house.
But I’m not a hoarder. All the bank statements in my flat are from 2015.
Why? In 2015 my bank suddenly started sending me weekly paper statements. I’d just been given a lovely job as a researcher on the TV show Room 101, so I didn’t have time to work out how to stop them. I was too busy finding out why celebrities hate checking into hotels. Luckily, after several months, the statements abruptly ceased. Presumably the bank realised that making weekly print-outs of a small number getting smaller was a more of an art project about capitalism than a useful customer service.
Fast forward to 2023: I’ve just found the statements in the back of a drawer, and I need a safe way to destroy all this personal data.
“We should buy a shredder,” I say to Jon. This is something I say every few months, when I forget that I can’t move around the flat without tripping over an applicance we don’t have space for.
“We don’t have space for a shredder,” says Jon.
“We made space for the microwave,” I say, gesturing at the microwave, which for the past two years has had its own seat at our table.
“I preferred it when we used to have friends round for dinner.”
“Fine.” I say. “Then you have to help me burn my bank statments.”
Jon’s whole face lights up. Almost without blinking, he grabs his wallet and skips out the house to buy “lighters AND matches”. I have never seen him more keen to do an errand. I worry I am living with an arsonist.
“At least he won’t burn down our house,” I think. “Because destroying all those books would be very problematic.”
When Jon returns, we head out into the garden. I carefully place my pile of bank statements into the neighbours’ Love Island style firepit. Jon strikes a match and tosses it in. Obviously the densely-packed papers don’t catch. We try again. A couple of dog-eared sheets start burning, but there’s no oxygen circulating, so the fire soon fizzles out.
Jon is getting antsy. Probably because he wants to go burn down a school. We throw on more matches, and Jon begins enthusiastically lighting individual bank statments with one of his six new disposable lighters.
“This feels like one of those 1970s public information films where the kids are about to die,” I say.
“No it doesn’t,” says Jon, disappointed.
The bank statements still aren’t burning well, but now an enormous black plume of smoke is spiralling into the sky. Someone next door is coughing. A woman smoking a joint on a neighbouring fire escape looks down at me with contempt.
“Data protection,” I shrug apologetically. I wish that I was smoking drugs. Instead I am smoking a paper record of the plastic animals I have bought.
Now Jon is coughing. This is good because it means he’s inexperienced around fires, which is reassuring. My lungs are burning. My eyes are burning. And most importantly, the soot is ruining my horrible Furby crop top, which I’ve treasured since I bought it from H&M in 2013. I’ve had enough. I hope that my data has been obscured, and tip a bucket of water over the fire. This creates a toxic black sludge, and a thick tower of smoke which blots out the sun. In the garden next door, a child begins to cry.
“Oh god. Oh god.” I mutter.
Jon rolls his eyes. I look at the smoking pile. Quite a lot of my personal details are still visible, like the fact that I once paid £6.99 for a hyperealistic plastic Swan with Cygnets (model 13718). Burning stuff is really hard.
“Well, at least we weren’t trying to dispose of a body!” I say, playfully elbowing Jon in the ribs.
Jon looks back at me darkly. I wonder if I should get rid of some of the candles from the bathroom.
“Maybe I should get better at throwing stuff out,” I start monologuing. “But what if it’s valuable one day? Not the bank statements, obviously, or the half-burned bath candles, or the piles of unread novels, or the Furby crop top… But what if that Swan with Cygnets model 13718 is now worth loads of money?”
Jon taps at his phone.
“£34.80,” he says. “£34.80 on Ebay.”
Of course, I’d never sell my Swan with Cygnets model 13718, so this is immaterial. Nevertheless, we decide not to get rid of anything ever again.
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