Helping the kids with a clearout is a conflicting business

By instinct, I am a collector – some would say hoarder. When challenged about it, I’ll explain that you just never know when something might come in handy, or might need to be referred back to. And sure enough, I have many lever-arch files of old documents, and a tool box full of all sorts of bits and pieces. The garden shed houses such varied items as a partially cracked water pistol, a paint-spattered set of coat hooks and several off cuts of timber. It’s enough for The A-Team to fashion a half-decent tank, and enough for me to wonder how I’ll be able to put the lawn mower away.

But if I claim utility as my primary excuse for hanging onto things, sentimentality actually plays an equal role. When I was a child, I hated throwing anything away in case it somehow sullied or dulled a memory to which the item was attached; and since I was lucky enough to have a big bedroom, I could simply stack things on shelves or cram them under my bed. I had knickknacks and mementos, but also old school books and rail tickets. You name it, I kept it.

Yet the challenging counterpoint to my hoarding predisposition is that I don’t like mess. Whereas my parents’ home had oodles of storage – allowing books, bumph and paraphernalia to be tucked away neatly – my own is significantly smaller. So, once every cupboard, shelving unit and wardrobe is full up fit to burst, the conundrum is whether to find things to ditch, or to simply turn into one of those people you watch on Channel 5 documentaries who hasn’t seen their kitchen sink since 1996.

You might think I could simply shift some of the gubbins back to my parents, who still live in the large house they did during my childhood. But their cupboards are already full of the stuff I left there when I was 21 and demanded should not be chucked out: a ton of Lego; a huge vat of Brio; any number of books; and a surprisingly sizable collection of Second World War memorabilia. I’ll have to deal with it one day. Mañana…

But if I feel conflicted about divesting our house of my own crap, it is as nothing to how I feel about helping the kids with a clearout: more space, woo-hoo; but chucking out little Ted, noooo! Clothes which they have grown out of might mean nothing to them, but I remember precisely that they were wearing that particular top on a memorable holiday trip. Toys which now lie uncared for in a box immediately take me back to their more innocent days, and yet they are happy to get rid because all they now care about is YouTube and FIFA.

Having recently redecorated my son’s room, and unearthed all sorts of things he no longer plays with, reads or cares about, I found myself making decisions about their disposal based mostly on my own emotions. Books we read to him regularly stayed on the shelf; those which were never loved went in a charity bag. Similarly, toys that he once could not put down were given a stay of execution – not because he was desperate to keep them, but because I can’t quite bear to part with the embodiment of a memory.

I also have an eye to the potential rediscovery of childhood items by my kids when they have grown up. One of my favourite books as a boy was The Giant Jam Sandwich, my old copy of which not only proved a hit with my children, but also gave me renewed delight when I read it to them night after night. One or two toys that have made their way down the generations also brought as much nostalgic joy to me as they brought new pleasure to the kids. And when I file away some of my son’s football cards from last season, it’s because I know how much I like having an occasional look at my box of football stickers from the Eighties.

Thankfully, I was able to justify the recent retentions by discovering eight large, and nearly-empty cans of old paint, tucked away under the eaves “just in case”, but now dried up and unusable. On the basis of a kind of “one in, one out” policy, their removal freed up space for a bag of Action Man figures, which, you never know, could come in handy one day.