HOW much is too many? We live in an acquisitive society. I do not absolve myself from the crime. I’ve a massive collection of books about decluttering.

Books are my heroin. In particular, I’ve too many by or about Tolkien, including multiple copies of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. I did get rid of hundreds of books a couple of years ago, with the first selected being Lee Child’s Jack Reacher series – a man in my position cannot be seen with “thrillers” – all of which I’m now in the process of re-purchasing, this time on Kindle.

Apart from the aforementioned Tolkiens, some CS Lewis and maybe the occasional ancient classic (in different translations) or the odd self-help bible (though never in their entirety), the Reachers are the only books I’ve read twice.

Another 50 books have sat on my kitchen table for months while I pluck up the courage to chuck ’em. They’re about journalism. Obviously, I know everything there is to know on the subject, but I’m still held back by the emotion invested in these tomes, purchased when I was young, idealistic and still untouched by the brute reality.

I don’t think I’ve too much of anything else: CDs and DVDs, I suppose. I could make a case for these being cultural artefacts, but it would be weak. You mention my scores of invisible reading glasses, but these have tended to exist only a few at a time. The rest just disappeared.

Seriously. When I vacated my last house, and the place stood empty, the many pairs of lost reading glasses should have been revealed. But they’d evaporated. Recently, while up a ladder in the garden, I dropped my specs. Heard them hit the deck. I’ll get them when I’ve finished this job, I said. But they’d gone. Simply disappeared. The only rational explanation was that hobgoblins had taken them.

Once, at the risk of compromising my dignity and making me look like an eccentric second-hand bookseller or antiquarian, I bought one of these cords for holding your glasses from your neck. Lost it by the time I got home.

This week, actor Christopher Biggins revealed he’d hoarded 500 pairs of specs, which he kept in special drawers. His concern was the colour clashing with his clothes, a consideration I’ve never entertained.

His confession came hot on the heels, as it were, of shock headline news that one in eight women own more than 100 pairs of shoes. That’s some feet. The public prints highlighted lasses who’d spend a grand on a pair of shoes. Some had 200 pairs.

We all know women who own too many shoes. Indeed, many do. I just cannot see the attraction of amassing footwear. I wear the same boots all the time. Right enough, there are probably a dozen sets of footwear, including trainers and gardening shoes, in the cupboard.

But I cannot imagine having 100 pairs. These must be impulse purchases. Is it the sparkle, the gaudiness, the heels? To be fair, women’s shoes are more interesting than men’s. Still, I’m not sure we can consider shoes cultural artefacts. You cannot read or listen to a pair of shoes.

That makes my hoarding more justifiable than theirs. Just. But how do we stop this? Perhaps the woke, who don’t strike me as big readers, could become more like their inspiration, the Taliban, and instead of just policing our thoughts could start to police our possessions, going from house to house on their bicycles and throwing things out.

Short of something like that happening, I cannot think how we end the habit of acquisition, other than through self-discipline. Right, you first.

Time to talk

WHO has the time nowadays to telephone the Speaking Clock? Well, many people, apparently, particularly at that Westminster. There, MPs, Lords and staff have made 2,000 calls to the BT service since 2015, when they could look out the window and see Large Ben, one of the world’s biggest time mechanisms.

I’d no idea the Speaking Clock was still a thing today, when everything is right digital. There’s a clock on your mobile phone and in your cornflakes. I prided myself on remembering the number: 101. Then I discovered it was 123. I suspect that if I’d a casualty on my hands they’d die as I tried calling 998 and 777.

So I rang 123 and was delighted that it actually worked, as generic numbers called from my mobile usually don’t (another great modern advancement). “At the third stroke the time brought you by 02 will be …”

Why is everything nowadays worse than it was 40 years ago? (I speak with pique having spent 15 minutes last night trying to get a video on Amazon Prime to rewind two sentences). The Clock is now spoken by a robotic-sounding voice, with the different words all patched together rather than delivered in a proper sentence by someone enunciating clearly, ken?

That said, I found it oddly reassuring that the service still existed. Apart from anything else, it’s the most conversation I’ve had in five weeks. Couldn’t get a word in edgeways, right enough.

Clean cumquats

THEY say cleanliness is next to godliness, which is a pity as I’d have made more of a go of it otherwise. However, I wonder if the new cleaning liquids for fruit and veg are worth investing in. They’ve become a thing, because of capitalist farmers coating our grub in horrors such as soil.

There’s little point in washing off chemicals on your cumquats with liquid that’s also full of chemicals. So these new washes, sprays and wipes are right organic. But must we clean everything?

I should clarify that, contrary to my opening bombshell sentence, I do shower daily sometimes and always wash my hands after picking my nose. I very rarely use hair shampoo, as it makes my barnet bouffant. But I like bathroom scents and, while eschewing deodorants and toilet water, enjoy shower gels where the pong is strong. After much experimenting, I now stick to the cheapest one. When it comes to smells, I like something that’s right in your face.

Meanwhile, as for washing liquids for fruit and veg, before using them myself, I’ll wait to see if anyone dies first.

Well plastered

HOW disturbing to read about DIY breaking up relationships. When I’ve suffered break-ups, the main reason given – on asking politely for an explanation – was that I was just rubbish generally. I don’t remember anyone mentioning DIY, perhaps because I prefer YDI: You Do It.

But a survey for handyperson outfit TaskRabbit says one in 10 people ditch their partner for botching home improvements, even just painting a wall badly. Not sure what can go wrong there unless, like me, you get more paint on the furniture and in your partner’s eye than on the wall.

Gamely, I still essay DIY (Destroy It Yourself), not least because there are few tradesmen where I live. Last time I tried getting one, on a 65-mile round trip, I was told they might manage in three months’ time.

So I did it myself, plastering over a large fissure that had appeared on a ceiling. Job was OK, though I could imagine a partner saying: “What the hell is that mess? I’m leaving you, Rodney, or whatever your name is. I love you madly, but your plastering skills are deplorable!”

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