So much clutter

Apparently despite all those TV programmes and media articles about decluttering, if anything the problem's getting worse.

Studies show that a third of the possessions in a typical UK home aren't used. Not only that but many people have forgotten they owned the items in the first place.

Garages are used more and more not for housing cars but storing all those items we can't fit into the house.

Jenny and I are pretty ruthless about getting rid of unwanted items, but even so there are still a few surplus items that could swiftly be disposed of. But it's easy to find bogus reasons for hanging onto things.

When I met Jenny I was living in a tiny bedsit, and I simply couldn't buy very much because there was absolutely no storage space. As we moved up the property ladder to bigger flats and then bigger houses, of course we acquired lots of bits and pieces to fill the extra room. So if we got rid of too much there would just be a lot of strange empty spaces.

Our biggest possession is books. We must have at least a thousand but we chuck our very few because we fully intend to re-read most of them. In reality most of them don't get re-read, they just sit there gathering dust or sometimes they're so old they simply fall to pieces.

Some of you will recall that my mother was a chronic hoarder. Luckily I haven't inherited that particular trait.

Infinite clutter

I'm fascinated by hoarders and why they start hoarding - and why they can't stop. It's a complex mental process that psychologists themselves can't really explain.

As my regulars will know, my mum was a compulsive hoarder. After she died, huge amounts of junk and clutter had to be cleared out of her flat. There were newspapers and bank statements and travel brochures going back years.

When my brother in law tried on one occasion to remove some of he accumulated clutter, my mum was furious and forbad him to remove anything. Even when she was warned that the state of the flat was a fire and safety hazard, she took no notice. I've no idea why she was attached to all this stuff. I can only assume it comforted or reassured her in some way.

Just recently I encountered another hoarder, whose flat was equally full of junk - a lot of it brand-new items that had never been used. She did at least accept that the hoarding was out of control and she needed to have a serious clear-out.

Jenny and I are the opposite. We like neat and tidy surroundings and we discard or recycle as much stuff as we possibly can. We can't imagine the house being so cluttered we'd find it difficult simply to move around or do everyday tasks.

Psychologists struggle to explain the hoarding urge - why people get so emotionally attached to things that they have to keep them, and get so angry when anyone suggests parting with some of them.

Just how does it start? Were their parents hoarders? Did their parents throw away things they treasured? Did their parents encourage spending sprees? Were their parents afraid of discarding something vital by mistake? Whatever the cause, psychologists are still very much in the dark.

A small penalty

One of the small penalties (if that's the right word) of having a big and fully furnished house is that you have to constantly resist the temptation to buy more bits and pieces, however beautiful or sentimental or nostalgic they may be.

Yes, I know, first world problem and all that, some people don't even own a tent let alone a house, but nevertheless for us possession-laden oldies it's a very real dilemma.

Jenny and I look in a shop window and see a lovely jug or vase or bowl or ornament that would look great in our living room or kitchen or bedroom, and we have to steel ourselves to simply admire it and then regretfully pass by. It's either that or we end up with a house full of clutter and increasing buyer's remorse - blaming ourselves for not being more disciplined.

It makes me realise how people can accumulate so many possessions that the huge surplus has to be stored in a garage, or the attic, or a storage facility - or all three. Temptation is impossible to resist and those impulsive purchases keep piling up.

Jenny's dad was keen on blue and white pottery. It was on display all over the house on shelves and mantelpieces and dressers. There wasn't quite enough to cause a serious storage problem but it was getting that way.

It's strange thinking back to my days in a one-room bedsit, when I had hardly any possessions, a far cry from a house full. There was barely enough room for a few clothes and books and a small amount of food. There was no way I could be tempted into buying anything I absolutely didn't need.

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This is bizarre. Blogger has deleted two of my old posts for "violating our illegal activities policy". As they don't explain why the posts are illegal, and the posts themselves have been deleted, I have no idea what they're referring to. Update 13 May: I asked Blogger to review their deletions and they instantly reinstated the posts. I still have no idea why they were deleted in the first place!

Books galore

When does book collecting become book hoarding? When do you have a normal number of books and bookshelves, and when does it become abnormal? When does book-buying become such a wild compulsion that you no longer have enough bookshelves for them, and there are piles of books all over the floor?

People with absurd numbers of books (like tens of thousands) will justify them by saying they fully intend to read them all one day, or they're of sentimental value, or they can't bear to part with old favourites, or they're related to a particular interest (like hundreds of bird books).

Jenny and I have always kept our book stock to a modest level - about a thousand books at the last count - by aiming to discard as many books as we buy. This routine has served us well so far. Luckily there's a charity second-hand bookshop just down the road. so our abandoned books will find new readers. Of course we may simply be encouraging book hoarders to buy dozens of cheap second-hand books....

There's a temptation to acquire as many books as your home can accommodate. The first flats Jenny and I lived in were too small for large numbers of books, so we were more likely to "read and discard", but as we moved to bigger flats the need for a rapid recycling of books declined and they tended to linger.

We keep a lot of books on the basis that we're sure to re-read them some day, only to find that many of them never get re-read and just gather dust. Sooner or later our tastes change and that wonderful old book from ten years ago suddenly seems clunky and rambling and ready to be thrown out.

At least I don't buy books I know very well I'll never read, like Ulysses or War and Peace or In Search of Lost Time. That's a few less to worry about.

Moving day

I've just been over to St Ives in Cambridge-shire to see my 95 year old mum move into a care home. It seems like an excellent place, with staff who are genuinely committed to keeping the residents happy and maintaining a sense of independence wherever possible. She certainly looked happy enough after a few hours there meeting the staff and other residents.

Me and the rest of the family - her daughter, son-in-law and granddaughter - were reluctant to see her move into a care home, as so many seem to be little more than uncaring warehouses for the elderly, and as my mum has always been fiercely independent.

But we had to admit it was time for her to move somewhere she would be constantly monitored, as she was having frequent falls and sometimes lying on the floor for hours before being found. She also wasn't eating properly or drinking enough. She was feeling increasingly isolated and unsafe.

Unfortunately she seems to have declined rapidly over the last few months, as each further fall undermined her confidence and made her afraid of going out or simply moving around the flat. Just a year ago she was still fit enough for me to take her to some local coffee shops and sit by the river. And before that she was still going on cruises and seaside breaks.

Now we've started on the Herculean task of clearing mum's old flat of all the accumulated clutter and odds and ends that have been piling up for years, since she was reluctant to throw anything away - newspaper cuttings, old bills, Christmas cards, letters, holiday brochures, never-worn clothes, you name it. I think it was all a kind of security blanket.

So we hope she'll be content in her new surroundings. We'll just have to keep our fingers crossed for a few weeks until she's really got the feel of the place. Hopefully she'll be thriving.

Pic: Not my mum, but she looks remarkably similar

Home truths

I'm always curious about other people's homes - how they furnish them, what they keep in them, what gadgets they have, how spartan or cluttered they are. I love it when I'm invited into a home I've never seen before. And I'm always peeping into people's windows as I walk along the street.

The most spartan house I ever saw belonged to a friend's aunt in Liverpool. Aunt Dolly was deeply religious and refused to own anything that wasn't strictly essential. Every room was totally basic - just tables, chairs, beds and cupboards. There were no carpets, no ornaments, no pictures, no books. It would have given me the creeps if it wasn't a rather refreshing contrast to the mountainous clutter of my parents' house.

I've seen plenty of cluttered homes, with so many bits and pieces stacked everywhere I have to step carefully through the remaining spaces to avoid toppling huge piles of books, crushing the kids' toys or stepping on a pot plant. The occupants always apologise for the mess and vow to tidy up but the next visit usually reveals even more jumble and disorder.

There are homes where just about everything is faulty and needs attention but the faults are seen as a charming part of the domestic ambience. Ah yes, that door always sticks. Oh yes, that radiator has an awful rattle. And don't worry about the leak, I'll just put a bucket under it.

Some houses exude sex. The main bedroom is full of nude pictures, the bed coverings are silky and sensuous, and a titillating erotic memoir lies on the bedside table. No doubt there are drawers full of sexy underwear and vibrators but I wouldn't be that nosy.

Householders can be so obsessively houseproud you're nervous of touching anything at all in case you leave a fingerprint or a dirty mark or any trace whatever of human contact. Every pristine object looks as if it were bought yesterday and I feel like I'm in a museum. I keep expecting a security alarm to go off or a po-faced attendant to say I'm too close to something.

People's houses are full of fascinating insights into their private lives. And sometimes repulsive ones. I'll never forget the elderly London woman who kept hundreds of cats in her four-bedroom house - the overpowering stink had to be smelt to be believed. She was probably so used to it she never even noticed.