I’m not saying that hanging on to things is in my genes, but while visiting my parents’ house last summer, I discovered a sachet of powdered beef casserole mix that went out of date in 1992. It had not only survived for a decade beyond its sell-by date in a cupboard in Leicestershire, it had then moved house to Shropshire, where it degenerated for a further 20 years. It’s almost certainly still there.
I don’t tend to live as if the second world war is still raging, but it’s perhaps inevitable I have grown up as the sort of person who doesn’t throw “things” away. Museum guides, running medals, posters for gigs in a Leeds pub circa 2001 – such items, obtained over 43 years, have always been squirrelled away in a storage box somewhere. Almost none are on display – which, you could argue, makes keeping them all the stranger.
