Originally posted on greenfairydotcom

I decided a short while ago that twenty-six was way past the age where it was acceptable to still be living like a student, even if I still was one. My constant mystery at why I owned five cans of silly string (various colours) but no salad tongs (possibly because I don't like salad but that's not the point; they seem to be things which one ought to own anyway) started to annoy even me, and so I drew up a definitive three-point plan to help ease myself past whatever stumbling block it is that prevents me thinking dinner parties, linen skirts and the property ladder are a good idea. And this is it:

1. Remove food from the can before eating it
2. Stop writing people's phone numbers on the walls
3. Throw away half the things I own

As anyone who calls themselves a guru will tell you, starting with small, attainable goals is the key to success. I'll be choosing my next flat by how close it is to a good nursery rather than a good kebab shop by the year's end, you just wait. So this weekend I've embarked on a mercilessly savage purge of clutter, the likes of which has not been seen since I moved here three years ago.

I've removed ten black blags alone from my cellar/office/dumping space, at least five of which contain stuff I don't remember ever having owned - the olive green velour curtains? The Scottie dog shaped pyjama case? Three teapots with no lids? I've rearranged things from haphazard piles and put them together with other similar things in lovely little carboard Ikea boxes with pink and green polka dots on. For ease of later identification I've labelled them helpfully on the outside with stickers saying things like 'badge Tony', 'white tea' and 'plug paint', the meanings of which I will forget within the week.

Feeling virtuous and grown-up, I turn my attentions to The Space At The Top Of My Wardrobes Into Which I Never Look. Cannot think why I have clothes hanging about the room when there's all this space up here just waiting to be... oh. Beacuse it's stuffed to the brim with soft toys. Soft toys I didn't even recall I had, but now I've come eye to beady plastic eye with them, I must retreat into the living room for a cup of tea and a Double Decker to bolster my resolve. I didn't know they were there. If they had vanished yesterday by some nefarious means I would not have missed, or very likely ever noticed, they had gone. But each fluffy - often ugly - creature had at some point been given to be by someone, and though they add no beauty to my life I feel guily about throwing them away in a way I just don't with the hideous family of porcelain dogs I got from my parents two birthdays ago.

I grab a black bag and open it quietly, hoping they wont hear. I take each toy down and try to pat away the anxiety in its eyes, telling it soothingly that they're going to a new home to get lots of love and attention from a new boy or girl. When two bags are full to bulging and no toys remain, I place them in the corner of my newly minimalist office and try to think how I'm going to get them to Oxfam on the bus. Calming my nerves by writing a blog post, I am sure I can hear the quiet, muffled sobs of bears trying to be brave.

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