This was the big one. It was ruthless. Over the course of a week (and with the help of my wonderful family), I got rid of almost everything. Furniture I’ve spent years hoarding. Half finished projects. Treasured trinkets and jazzy gadgets. A well cultivated, much-loved wardrobe.

And somehow, somehow, I still have a shitload of stuff left. I’ve culled down to the bare bones of what I can throw away, give away or sell. But that’s the thing. Most of it is just… stuff. It’s not much more than kipple.

Kipple is useless objects, like junk mail or match folders after you use the last match or gum wrappers or yesterday’s homeopape. When nobody’s around, kipple reproduces itself. For instance, if you go to bed leaving any kipple around your apartment, when you wake up the next morning there’s twice as much of it. It always gets more and more.

– Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? by Philip K. Dick

Whilst it is freeing to have packed your life into bags, ready to jet off at a moment’s notice, I think collecting, treasuring, archiving and curating is in my nature. Things mean things to me. I adore looking back through photo albums, memory boxes, even rifling through old handbags to see what I’m reminded of. Happy times past, and happy times yet to come. I’m a great, big, sentimental old Hector.