You don’t want a fondue set before you go? Or 300 old copies of Interiors? Or a breadmaker, or this little teddy, before it goes to the dump? Just the breadmaker? OK then, I’ll just kiss it goodbye and check it no longer speaks to me – I won’t regret it then, that’s the key. No, it’s not speaking to me. Farewell, breadmaker. Although I never used you, I can’t deny you were on my wedding list. Now I’m going to bow in the direction of the rising sun. OK, it’s all yours.
Sorry, but the ceremonial part is why I never managed to do this before. You must have heard about it: throwing out is totally the new curating. Look, ring my guru, though there’s this huge waiting list. Within half an hour, she’d thrown out every single book and CD in the house, and all the children’s old toys, except this one, and that was only because my son started crying. Goodbye, Little Ted. Well, £150 an hour might sound a lot, but all the shredding’s included, and after six sessions, I could look in my wardrobe and see only clothes I would like to wear. You feel so much cleaner, it’s almost a religious sensation.
They’ve proved it, actually: people with too much stuff are more likely to get cancer or depression, it’s definitely a sickness. Now, I feel stressed if I don’t make space for a decluttering act a day. You need time for goodbyes, so you don’t feel guilty – I could never have chucked out all the kids’ Mother’s Day cards otherwise. It turned out that they’d been weighing me down spiritually. Yep, every single one of them, because if I’m going to go professional, I have to set an example.
Now that we’re down to one plate each, there’s barely anything left to get rid of. I’d lend you the book if I still had it, but the basic decluttering rule is, don’t keep something because you think you might need it again. You can easily buy another, can’t you, like I did with the car.
