Listen, I don’t want to sound worthy. I’m pretty precious and pouty much of the time. But JESUS CHRIST THE STUFF. Lockdown threw a ruthlessly relentless spotlight on the stuff; creeping out of cupboards; bursting out of drawers; peeping from under sofas; tumbling out of cupboards – by the way, it’s fucking painful and annoying when a kilner jar full of three-year-old homemade granola from ‘that phase’ lands on your head. Not to mention the steamers, popcorn machines, spiralizers, soup-makers, slow cookers, stupid narrow-necked vases (a five gallon, blown glass vessel that can only manage one stem FFS), harem pants (why?), hurty bras, self-help books (sorry Pia Melody, but stop it), very small, stained, tarty, fake Hervé Leger party dresses and stupid, stupid, STUPID spices. Party hats, ugly pottery (from ‘that other phase’), broken lamps, moth-eaten sweaters (but they’re cashmere. Yes they’re cashmere, they’re also distressed to the point of no return), bad pillows, ancient towels, coats, coats, coats.
It’s time, isn’t it, to live with less. Just to repeat: not in a worthy way (sadly I am STILL not that person). In a sanity way. In a ‘I can’t bear it’ way. In a ‘Obviously doing up the house was a remote dream but post-pandemic it will be an impossible dream so I might as well empty the house and give myself some BREATHING SPACE’ way. Apparently, charity shops are terrified of the post-lockdown onslaught. If they try to say ‘no thanks’ we’ll all be doing midnight, Sue Ryder fly tipping won’t we? Oh, stop it – you know you’ll have someone in the driver’s seat of the getaway car as you frantically but quietly unload bin bags from the back on your local high street before leaping in and rasping ‘Drive!’
We’re at all kinds of capacity: emotional, financial, hormonal. And there is simply no room for the stuff. What’s that you say? What’s in my Matches shopping basket, you ask? My Lakeland wishlist? My Amazon Prime trolley? Now you’re just being rude…
