There are two types of people: the hoarders and those who are always chucking things out because they hate clutter. I fall into the latter category. In my view, a well-ordered environment makes for a well-ordered mind. So you’ll not see my desk buried beneath the usual office detritus, nor my car strewn with apple cores, empty crisp packets, and scrunched-up receipts. In moments of boredom, I enjoy going through a drawer or cupboard to weed out items no longer required.
However, my long-standing urge to jettison useless stuff has led to trouble. One episode still haunts me. I was in the kitchen with my mother, who was cooking an elaborate meal. The countertop was awash with chopped onions, cloves of garlic, clumps of parsley, potatoes for peeling, a plateful of diced beef, spices galore… Trying to be helpful, I vigorously wiped surfaces and tidied away anything unneeded, and in the process swept into the bin what appeared to be a used paper towel beside the sink.
A day or two later, my mother realised her wedding and engagement rings were missing and remembered she had taken them off while cooking and wrapped them in a paper towel for safekeeping. By then, the bin had been emptied, the refuse collected, and the rings long gone. She wasn’t angry, just very sad. I was mortified. I still can’t recall the incident without a pang of pain.
My father didn’t escape my de-cluttering tendencies, either. Once, I was staying at my parents’ flat and decided to straighten the books and framed photos on the jam-packed shelves in the sitting room. I ejected anything resembling rubbish: the odd empty envelope and forgotten advertising leaflet, a used pipe cleaner, etc. It turned out I’d also disposed of the temporary dental bridge my father’s dentist had made for him, and which he’d briefly removed and put on a shelf, also wrapped in a tissue. It just looked like a crumpled tissue to me, so into the bin it went. Luckily, catastrophe was averted when my dad noticed it was missing and bellowed my name. Instinct told him the culprit was me.
Another memorable episode entered the annals of Porter family lore. Even as a young wife, I was unsentimental about outdated old clothes and identified one such item as my husband’s dress trousers, which seemed pretty worn out. I donated them to Oxfam. Come the gala dinner, when he looked for them only to discover they were no longer there, it was too late to hire a replacement. In desperation, he borrowed his father’s black tie. But as his dad was shorter than him, the trousers had to be weighed down with heaps of coins in the pockets to reach the required length. When he walked, he jangled furiously. He was mortified. Eventually, it became an amusing dinner party anecdote.
I can’t remember how my mother-in-law learned of its fate, but when she did, she was livid and didn’t speak to me for weeks
I regretted upsetting my mother-in-law with a similar charity donation. One Christmas, she gave my husband and me a little candelabra made, I think, of silver plate. But the candle-holders were unusually thin, and I could never find candles to fit, so I stashed it away in a cupboard and in due course gave it to Oxfam, where it might do some good. I can’t remember how my mother-in-law learned of its fate, but when she did, she was livid and didn’t speak to me for weeks. I never thought giving it away was such a big deal. Mea culpa.
Because I don’t like walking around with bits of rubbish in my pockets – chocolate bar wrappers, hand wipes, and the like – I always empty them as soon as I pass a litter bin. Important things that must be kept I place in my handbag or, for extra security, in my wallet. But I once got this wrong and paid a heavy price for it. I had parked in a multi-storey car park in London’s West End, but when I returned two hours later and looked for the ticket issued to me on entry – which I needed in order to pay my fee and exit – it was nowhere to be found. I always put such essential items in my wallet, but on that occasion, I absent-mindedly slipped it into my pocket. And there it lay until, jumbled together with some actual rubbish, it got dumped in a bin.
Trying to exit a car park without the requisite ticket is one of the vexing challenges of modern life. There was no attendant on site, no other way to pay. Just an exit barrier that wouldn’t let me out. At last, after getting some grudging assistance on the phone and paying several times what I actually owed, I escaped from my prison. Like Jean Valjean, I’d been heartlessly penalised for one little slip-up… Regrets? Sure, I have a few. But I’d still much rather be a de-clutterer than a hoarder. Just keep your rings on and your teeth in, should I ever come over.
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