Clearing a house after someone has died is a strange experience; combing through their possessions like a benevolent extra in CSI. Everything from the gems in their jewellery box to the contents of their fridge. But it reinforces a big lesson. You really can’t take any of it with you. When my parents passed away, while I kept the sentimental things, van-loads went to charity. Even more, into a skip.
As for the furniture, a dealer quoted £90. I thought it was worth more, until he explained I had to pay him to take it away.
It’s given me perspective on my own belongings. I’m under no illusion that when it’s my turn, when my house is being sorted and sifted, all the precious artefacts I hauled home from holidays – the hundredweight stone sculpture from Papua New Guinea and carvings from Jodhpur – will doubtless be viewed in the same way I look upon Capodimonte figurines and scenic ashtrays. Goners. But as they currently conjure up priceless memories, they’re earning their keep.
There are countless items that don’t. Because basically, I have too much stuff. A ridiculous amount, accumulated over the years. When I consider people in the world who survive on so little, it’s actually obscene that our loft looks like a second-hand storeroom at Argos. Exhibit a) an electric shiatsu neck massager – a big old lump that sits on your shoulders, making you look like an American footballer. How many times have I used it? Thrice. Exhibit b) a hair-removal device (a gift) that could double as a prop for Star Trek Voyager. How many epilations have I conducted? One. (Tears. In. Eyes.) And if you tipped out all the clothes I’ve amassed, it would resemble fashion landfill, seagulls wheeling overhead.
Like many, lockdown influenced how I viewed my clothes. I’d like to say it left me hankering for glamour, but it seduced me into slovenliness. So accustomed have I become to sheepskin ankle boots (slippers, basically) that when I wear posh heels now, they feel about as comfortable as a ball and chain. But the upside of this sartorial hiatus was that it gave me the opportunity to analyse my wardrobe with a degree of detachment. Main observation: my cupboards were so squished, so compacted, that fishing anything from the back was akin to archaeological excavation.
I dug deep and turfed out. And oh, the shame of confronting the fact I’d bought similar items over and over again! I found enough black trousers and skirts to kit out a state funeral. So I’ve edited the best and bid adieu to the rest.
The bonus of all this rummaging? Finding forgotten clothes I still love (some even still fit), plus a few retro designer labels that in our vintage-loving era give the impression they’ve been cleverly sourced in Parisian thrift stores when, in reality, I bought them over a quarter of a century ago and let them gather dust.
Some mementos, I will never relinquish. Baby teeth with thank you messages from the tooth fairy (genuine). A ring that my jeweller friend created by repurposing modest diamonds from pieces of the past, combining them into one chunky ring with carat clout. My christening dress. My wedding dress. A picture of me on the iron throne from GoT. And a menu signed by the legend that is John Thaw.
Lots of other stuff, I’ve given to a charity shop – one day, the three mannequins in its window were sporting outfits from me (I took a picture like a tourist at Harrods). But during Le Grand Decluttering, I also found boxes marked ‘eBay’ – occasionally I do a little online selling, most recently when I was down on my luck with work.
However, in this particular endeavour, you do have to be realistic about the volume you can process because once you’ve fielded questions from pixiesteve_x and 111sweetlips about inside leg measurements and authenticity, then searched for bubble wrap before queuing at the post office, if you have more than a few things up for auction, you’re looking at a full-time job. Which is why I’m diverting most of my eBay merch to whoever wants it, including a polished wooden beach bat and ball set (while me and my husband might fancy ourselves in Ipanema, we’ll never use it in a million years) and the bulky Nespresso machine (we’ve downsized to a traditional Italian on-the-hob pot).
Clearing the decks has given me space to breathe. To think. Look, I’ll never have an Instagrammable larder à la Marie Kondo. But more importantly, I’m less connected to ‘things’. I want, instead, to be connected to people, to experiences. To keep the useful, the meaningful, the beautiful and let the rest go. So if anyone would like the beach bats, then it’s first come, first serve. Play.
Read Jan Masters’ column every week in Telegraph Magazine and on Thursdays at 5am on the Telegraph website
