LIKE a Roman Emperor I sat on my throne and gave the thumbs up/down as to who should live or die. It was a powerful feeling and with each rapidly accelerating thumbs down, I began to enjoy the cruelty of my decisions.

Well, not a real Roman Emperor because it is a myth they used anything as coarse as those gestures – more Joaquin Phoenix who did though, so memorably, in Gladiator.

And my throne was a garden chair; the who was a what, and holding an object in each hand was Emile, my femme de menage – maid – whose ruthlessness is only matched by her efficiency.

This day I matched her every step of the way as she strode in and out of my bedroom clutching clothes from my wardrobe. For most of them it was their first outing since I moved them here.

We were finally doing what should have been done long ago – sorting out drawers and wardrobes.

Knowing my laziness this would still not have happened had not both bedroom and adjoining bathroom to be cleansed, bleached and dehumidified following "the incident".

There must be no chance of any rogue mould lurking above, behind or in furniture or curtains.

Emile, who balks at nothing, finally accepted, at my insistence, that she must wear a mask as she got to work over the next few days.

Warned I was not to spend any time there myself I watched from outside as a tangle of shirts, jumpers, scarves erupted from my large chest of drawers.

Some were saved to be rewashed, or, exposed to the killing sunlight; others dumped.

And now it was the turn of the wardrobe where I’d used one section for flinging in shoes, bags, plastic bags filled with loose change from different currencies. The stuffed away rubbish of a disorganised woman.

In here had also been discovered the first stirrings of damp, and clothes were taking on that musty, too cramped together smell.

So it was time.

It may be just me, or women in general, for I have never known a man sentimental about his garments; when every outfit brings a memory, a rush of pleasure and sometimes pain when viewed.

It’s why we hoard the unsuitable now too short skirts, the size 6 and 8s that for a few years before coming here I’d worn without having to think if they would fit when taken from their hangers.

It’s why the jodhpurs and the hacking jackets still line up although sadly I will never again enjoy the thrill of riding free.

The same with the ski-suits, the tennis dresses and, God in heaven, the Lycra gym clothes from the personal trainer era.

Fortunately it wasn’t me rifling through and walking away, as before, empty handed and closing the doors.

No, now Emile held up one filled hanger in each hand, thrusting them forward in the manner of a personal shopper showing me her choices.

Emile rarely wears dresses – she veers more towards leggings and T-shirts – so my pointing out the size 6 severe black Prada and the Armani this or that and the Max Mara elicited neither sighs nor envy. If anything, a bored "get on with it."

Then came the Armanis…the little suits with skirts now just too, too short. And tight. I’d worn that one in Paris, then Rome, with Pierce when showing him the cities for the first time in his late teens.

That grey trouser suit with the deep blue silk lining, for an award ceremony; that plain, perfectly cut black evening dress for a night so splendid I’ll keep the memory to myself.

And there, the pin-striped trouser suit for the London jobs; a silk shirt still under the jacket; the black shot-silk Mandarin suit made by the back street tailor in Bangkok; the amazing, intricately embroidered hunting cape bought in Morocco when in my 20s; the stiff pearl embroidered Indian evening coat.

One by one they came forth. A few were turned back again – just in case – but 90 per cent went for good.

Emile piled them all into the back of her 4x4 and she affected to be able to take or leave the deal I offered her.

"Just get rid of them." I said. "To charity or you could sell them and make a fair bit on ebay; they are desirable and they’re names.

"You keep what you make. I will never get around to doing that and certainly could never be bothered to post off stuff.

"The same with all this money you’ve piled up. Give it to your daughter – let her take the change to the bank and keep it."

And why not? I had my fun, my time in them and now it’s over and that tiny waist will never come again. Sob.

In a strange way I feel a great relief. The past often weighs far too heavily and impedes the present and the new sharp outlines of the remaining clothes make me feel lighter, brighter and relieved.

The shoes? Let’s not talk about them. There are some things in life that can never be jettisoned.