Hoarding

I'm a terrible hoarder. I always have been. I keep letters, cards, photos and books. There are drawers full of pens. Boxes full of beauty products, bottles of perfume. But with an impending move, and our flat nearing full capacity, I can feel myself teetering on the edge of a manic clear-out. Today may well be the day. There is not point in filling a large container, sailing it across the ocean, only to open it at the other end and realise that we have just paid to transport a load of rubbish.

When I waver, I will think of the Dutch bikes. The Dutch bikes that I couldn't bear to leave behind when Tim moved back to the UK because that meant admitting that such a happy time was coming to an end. The Dutch bikes that were transported in the back of the white transit van, deposited in my parents house and haven't moved since. Tim was right, they are completely impractical for the hilly countryside where my parents live, they should never have left Holland. He should have overruled me, but he didn't. And now they sit, reproachful and unloved, and a constant reminder.

I won't let my heart rule my head. I will put sentimentality to one side today. It is not things that hold memories. As always, I am sure I will have multiple dilemmas and second thoughts, but I must be strong. So I don't make the same mistake twice.