Soul for sale: Oxfam, Edinburgh

I have been reflecting on my clutter issue. This weekend, as promised, I have begun the clearing out. The black bags are piling up, and my digital camera and I have been busy snapping my unwanted (although mostly wanted) clothes to flog on eBay.

But I feel I am alone in my mess.

My flatmates’ idea of a home is somewhere you live without leaving the slightest impression of human habitation. That's why, before they go to bed every night, they move the scatter cushions half an inch from where they’ve been all day, so that the sofa looks like a derriere has never darkened its door.

My mother is also a tidy woman. You could literally eat off the floor of her kitchen, and if you leave an item of clothing even momentarily unattended it will be washed, ironed and ready to wear afresh before you even have time to ask ‘where did I put my cardigan?’ There are clean surfaces, a place for everything and everything in its place.

As discussed in my last post, Stuff it,I am not like this. Every surface is littered with books, paperwork that needs attending to, junk mail that needs the bin, and dare I confess it, half drunk mugs of tea.

Nothing is in its place because nothing has a place. How do you give something a place? Surely this is a question that should tax the minds of the world's finest philosophers, and yet most people seem to manage it quite naturally. So instead I pick my way through piles of clutter and weave the hoover in and out of the patches of visible floor. Whilst I have always maintained that life is too short, I am beginning to worry that I am leading a perilously inefficient and disorganised life.

From a practical, moral and I suspect bacterial perspective, it is basically wrong to live like this. And so I have begun the Great De-cluttering of 2011.

It is at times like these that I wish I lived in America. Oh to just have a yard sale. Dump all my stuff on the front lawn and sell my wares to the nosy neighbours. A car boot sale is not the same. And besides, I don’t own a car.

So instead the charity shop is benefiting from my great purge. But where does it end? Do I have to give away my bed?

My books will be safe. The dvds may not be so lucky. I’m sure my soul will be shattered as I sell all my dresses to ‘hot-shopper-666’ on eBay. Ah well I'll just tidy that up and put it in a binbag. Coming soon to an Oxfam near you.

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Stuff it

I am living in a clutter filled nightmare.

Life is fine when I have not done any laundry for a couple of weeks and the laundry basket is overflowing with towels, clothes and the like. However, fast-forward to the domestic-goddess moment where all of my clothes are washed and (I’d say ironed - but ironing’s against my religion) ready to be returned to a drawer or wardrobe, and I have an almighty problem.

This was highlighted yesterday when I broke my wardrobe whilst in the process of ramming something else into it. The back just came clean off in protest of my overfilling. The contents are now mainly spilled all over the floor. I should mention that the wardrobe was from Ikea, so it certainly wasn’t built to last, but I don’t think this is the point. I took this event as a sign.

I don’t have enough space.

Actually, correction: I have too much stuff.   

My stuff is starting to trouble me. I am beginning to think that more stuff equates to more stress. Each thing I own comes with a small expectation of responsibility. I look into my wardrobe and feel guilt. I glance into my drawers and see my neglect. When was the last time I wore this? Have I ever even used that?

Clothes are my weakness. I have never been one for gadgets, and can think of nothing worse than owning a giant plasma tv. But why do we all own so much stuff? We buy loads of it, most of which we can’t afford, won’t use and definitely don’t need.

We laugh about the old notion of ‘keeping up with the Joneses.’  But nowadays we even give numbers to the versions of things we’re buying so we can track which thing is newer and better and when we are officially out of date. You could say this is Mindless Consumerism 3.0.

I do not want to become one of the breed of people involved in ‘extreme de-cluttering’ or embrace some higher-power-zen notion that I could survive with just what was in my pockets.

I like owning more than one pair of underpants, could never part with my shelves full of tatty books, and would risk my life in a house-fire for my ghds.

But I do want to be able to shut the damned wardrobe.

Of course first I’ll need to fix the wardrobe. Although maybe it’d just be easier to buy a new one?