It always ends with me being wife-marched (which is a female, non-GBV-infused equivalent of frog-marched) to the storeroom to ‘do something about it’. For me ‘doing something about it’ involves picking a few items and throwing them out to basically create space for other collectibles during the course of the year. Makes sense? It doesn’t if you are not made of hoarding bones.
I come from a long line of hoarders. My father was a hoarder. Two uncles on my mother’s side were hoarders. My four cousins are hoarders. So there’s a rich history of hoarding that runs the whole garment of my extended family. On a hoarder scale of one to five most of my relatives would score around seven. I was coming on nicely and used to find it hilarious that people kept all sorts of odds and ends which should be at the Pilane Landfill. In fact, most of these relatives seemed to be staying in a landfill and I could not shake the feeling that they were actually high-class tramps. At a personal level I thought the hoarding bug was truly expunged from my family when most of these relatives went to heaven and joined the angels (well, hopefully).
