Decluttering has been a thing for many years.
Books and blogs have mushroomed about how to do it and why it’s good for you.
Retailers and authors have made their names and fortunes designing and selling “must-have” boxes, storage bags, cupboard and wardrobe planners so those items deemed keepers can be stored in an orderly fashion and be easily accessible.
No room for sentiment here – even things people have treasured for years must go if they haven’t been used or admired for a certain period. Old pics? Digitise them. Old clothes linked to beautiful memories, but never worn? Out with them. Granny’s old favourite but not terribly valuable tea set? Off to the charity shop to clutter someone else’s place.
It’s meant to turn your home into an oasis of calm and tranquillity, leading to a peaceful and de-stressed mind.
People have taken to social media to report on the freedom and other good feelings they have found after taking the advice.
Among the first things gurus tell you is, when starting out, tackle small things so you don’t become overwhelmed with stuff and give up.
So when I considered the potential benefits of getting with the programme, the third drawer in the kitchen was my first project.
And so it ended.
That drawer has everything I might need some day, the day before I need something in the second drawer in the desk full of cables and chargers and plugs and things, or the little cupboard that’s so difficult to get to above the fridge, to which the heavy pot roast dish mom gave me was retired, along with some ice cube trays.
The other stupid little cupboard in the kitchen, the one right above the extractor fan, includes a beautiful green bottle I want to use for something one day. The blue one my friend Alan gave me, with its beautiful glass stopper from Venice that another friend, Colleen, bought me, is beautifully placed to catch the sunlight. They don’t do anything and are completely useless on the utilitarian checklist. But I love them so much and think of Alan and Colleen every time the light shines, so there is no way they can go.
The trouble extends around my home: there’s nothing “valuable”, although a couple of silver-plated ex-South African Railway tea set bits gran and grandad passed on may be worth a rand or two. And the stunning old ginger jar with glued-back-together lid, also from gran. There’s nothing expensive or fancy and many items have been picked up over the years at flea markets, second-hand shops (from decluttered homes?) or while travelling.
And then there are the books: dad and I built three floor-to-ceiling bookshelves to add to the half-wall one and the many free-standing bookcases around the house. There are also piles of books on top of some of these.
Dust collectors all. But if I wanted to live in a home without memories and small, joyful, useless things, I would live in a hotel. If I didn’t have hairy dogs.
No, I think cluttering is my vibe. I just have some serious sympathy for the family who will have to clear it all out when I’m gone.
- Lindsay Slogrove is the news editor.
The Independent on Saturday