STUFF – THE CONFESSIONS OF A HOARDER

Compulsive, pathological pack-rat? I prefer collector, or possibly even ‘keeper of stuff’. "Stuff"is a word aimed derogatorily at the things I cherish by people who don’t understand. I, however, find the word amicable, even affectionate. Junk, on the other hand!

Recently I moved flat. This was actually a joyous occasion ruined by four flights of stairs. Preparatory work included the "keep/bin" game my girlfriend and I play at regular intervals involving books (always "keep"), old newspapers (glance through, always "keep") and old receipts or pieces of scrawled upon paper (is it a health and safety hazard? Well…"keep")

The transit process was complicated, not by the six huge boxes of books we had to lift up the stairs, but by 14 corks, from presumably 14 bottles of wine, we found in our kitchen. We had to keep them, as decisions in our house are resolved by throwing a cork into a vase from a distance of roughly 12 feet. Whoever does it first wins, and invariably doesn’t do the dishes. Disposing of the corks could mean dishes left undone, or an unresolvable argument. Picking one from the 14 would undoubtedly be a laborious decision. Who are we to play God on such matters?

So the corks travel. With Weather Boy 2 (don’t ask) no less.

Deciding what comes is matched in adversity at the other side by where to keep things. We replay "keep/bin" in case my tired body is willing to let some item through at this stage. The green jumper - which doesn’t fit - was bought in Reykjavik and will remain forever in drawer therefore. I also reserve the right to wear said jumper in public in defiance.

When deciding what to keep or bin, it is important to hold your nerve. Don’t be fooled into believing a Jeff Buckley video, which hasn’t worked in years, should be tossed away. It shouldn’t. This may appear unreasonable, but reason shouldn’t play a part in these decisions. They are purely emotional.

Broken keyring? Present from Naples. Empty Tindersticks case? It’s my favourite album.

Bibliomania is the term psychologists would use for people who gather books. I have hundreds if not thousands of them, and once calculated, in a moment of clarity that it would take me 16 years to read them at a rate of 50 a year. Suddenly my own mortality was at the fore of my thoughts so I bought more and read faster.

Another drawer is filled with notepads loitering at various degrees of completion. Most of them contain ideas for songs that will probably never be completed or lists of things which will never be fulfilled. Normally these scribbles capture a moment of innocent optimism, which will be crushed by a second glance only days later. The idea is now a bad one, and only by consigning bad notebook to drawer and replacing with clean slate, can I ever redeem myself.

Something to remember about notebooks is that if used, they will inevitably run out. This is a fate I can’t bear to contemplate and again appears to serve as a reminder of my own mortality. It’s better to have many notebooks with the continual optimism of a fresh start.

None of the odd things I acquire have any sellable value. That never enters my mind. I’m also aware that many of them have little or no function. I just like looking at them, or even better finding them. I have somewhere a stone from Kirkcaldy beach, a napkin from a restaurant in Texas I can no longer remember the name of, and a Cat in the Hat postcard from whom I’ve never learned. Just when these things turn up, I don’t know, but I do know they undoubtedly will.