The lockdown clear-out that knows no bounds

If I’m not released from my house soon there will be nothing left in it. Everything has been tidied, organised, pared down, rationalised and streamlined to such an extent that I could probably fit the entire contents into a small trunk. I have even caught myself idly wondering if I could put the cat on eBay. I’m not sure this is healthy and I think even my easy-going son might raise objections if I surreptitiously remove two of his three computer screens. Surely one is enough for anyone?

During that first lockdown when being at home was a novelty and many people naively viewed it as a chance to get their house in order, I enthusiastically rose to the challenge. Drawers were emptied, wardrobes culled and the depths of the loft were fathomed for the first time in, well, maybe ever. I charged about the house, wondering in a Marie Kondo-ish way what sparked joy (very little in the broom cupboard and an awful lot in the pantry). I discovered things I hadn’t seen for years and looked at everyday items with a newly critical eye. One year later and the big sort-out shows no sign of ending.

Jasper hiding in the garden

I concluded that sparking joy was a bit too much to expect from most objects and switched to William Morris’s advice instead: “Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful”. This led to the sad realisation that the contents of the broom cupboard would have to stay, but on a brighter note, the pantry and fridge were safe. Certainly William Morris’ philosophy was less demanding than Marie Kondo’s, but still an awful lot of stuff falls between the useful and the beautiful.

What about my old school tie, for instance, which is neither useful nor beautiful? But I wore it with such pride when I was a little girl and looking at it transports me back to a nearly forgotten time. It resonates with images of my 1960s childhood, when Beatles songs and trouser suits were thrillingly modern. Would Marie (I feel that we’re probably on first-name terms by now) want me to get rid of it? It doesn’t spark joy exactly, but it tingles with the energy of a life lived long ago, which surely is a distant cousin to joy. I think that William Morris (we’ll never have that first-names relationship) would be much more dismissive of the tie – can you imagine him hanging onto some old bit of rag amid the perfection of his arts and crafts house? Although he might have found a nimble needlewoman to sew it into a heritage quilt.

After much soul-searching, I packed the tie, along with old letters and mementos into a suitcase, which is now in the newly excavated loft. But I’m still at home with not a great deal to do. All those vases are starting to look surplus to requirements and even my poor books know that unless they earn their keep they’re off to the charity shop. A sort of lockdown hysteria seems to be setting in and I’ve just realised that what really needs to be tidied out of the house is me.