There is a particular sort of box that lurks in every home, full of “memorabilia” or “mementos”. Baby teeth, divorce certificates, spare keys for locks unknown, your granny’s old Padre Pio fridge magnet, the tenancy agreement for your last flat: the whole thing is rank with association, emotion, nostalgia and pain. That box is my nemesis. That box is doom.
Because I decided that turning 40, being pregnant and training for a second career wasn’t enough to be getting on with in a single month, I am also in the lucky position of moving house. Which means opening various drawers, boxes, cupboards and ring binders, only to discover a pit of painful sentimentality or logistical confusion at every turn. But listen to me: you can get rid of these things. Your child’s reception maths book? Put it in the recycling, my friends, and feel that burden lift. A photograph of you, aged 16, at your first festival, wearing a pair of jeans you had turned into flares by stitching two triangles of denim into the ankles? Put it in the bin and never miss it. That second cheese grater given to you by a well-meaning uncle? Take it to the charity shop and delight in the feeling of relief.
