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I am a hoarder. Not the type that gets lost under pizza boxes or keeps boxes of clothes long after the moths have eaten the good shit. Not the kind of hoarder that in my head is just a bit gross. Nope, I just have stuff. Lots of it. None of it’s mouldy, there are no unwanted animals hiding amidst it, it’s just honest to goodness, excessive at times, stuff.

Yet when I furnish my imaginary mansion I am drawn towards a blank canvas, not the ‘charming’ cluttered apartment I currently inhabit. I want minimalism and whiteness and a general cleansing of the palette. It’s as if placing myself in this new, clear, clutter-free home will rid me of my tendency to cling to things from yesterday, sentimental things that remind me of people and times and things that make me happy. I once kept a rose shaped potato that was a garnish on a dish at a cheap-ass Chinese restaurant my ex boyfriend brought me to. After a few years, it turned black and died, much like the relationship but it took me a bit too long to part with it. Anyway, you get the picture, it’s not just menaingful memorable things, much of my ‘stuff’ is utter shite. The kind of things I might chuck immediately if I didn’t think that maybe someone else might like them or use them or maybe even need them more than my spoiled self…

I shall endevour to be tidy and clean and to purge every month. To refine my wardrobe, building a respectable capsule made up of ‘investment’ pieces that will last the test of time. I will do the same in my sitting room, chucking my IKEA bits one by one and picking up special pieces as I go. Less is more. I shall repeat this mantra daily until I can see my bedroom floor clearly and allow people into my space without fear of judgement!

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