My life, as we speak, is packed up in around 50 cardboard boxes.
I say my life, but that’s not true.
Even accounting for the extensive collection of mid-nineties vinyl, I’m probably only responsible for a box and a half and a couple of loose jumpers.
For the second time in seven months it’s house move time – and this time, I’m determined will be the last.
I can’t believe how much junk has accumulated since I gave up the lay-about student lifestyle and was forced to become a responsible dad.
After all, moving house as a student was a doddle.
A rucksack is all that was really required, a shopping trolley if you were really pushed. It must be even easier these days with no CDs or books to cart about.
I’d imagine you could fit everything in a couple of carrier bags.
It did, however, have drawbacks – like the time my worldly posessions very nearly took a journey of their own to Inverness thanks to a forgetful moment at Durham railway station.
These days, with every move, I throw out more than I used to take with me as a teenager.
Not that it’s easy to do that.
Bin rules are so very strict - not like the days when there was a firm instruction on the issue of ‘no hot ashes’ but pretty much everything else was fair game.
This week there was a toy cull (every parent’s secret favourite pastime).
And, not realising how tight the rules had become, it was decided, cometh bin day, to leave on additional item –a garish pink plastic house – next to the wheeled wonder.
I can’t say I was surprised to find, on returning home, the contents of the bin had gone but the toy was still sat outside the gate.
If you ask me it’s rather unsporting not to allow someone, on the odd occasion, to go over their rubbish quota.
Instead I drove to the tip, probably doubling the carbon footprint of my single piece of refuse.
It’s enough to make you want to pull your hair out or at least bang your head against a brick wall.
I jolly well would, if there didn’t happen to be 50 cardboard boxes in the way.