OH TO BE ELEGANT AND CLUTTER FREE

As I grow older my life seems to become more cluttered. Not only my life, but my house as well. I live on clutter, am surrounded by clutter. I am perpetually tidying, slashing burning, recycling clutter. But it never does any good. The clutter simply grows as though it has a mind of its own. My clutter has Japanese Knotweed tendencies.

I suppose I could learn to say 'no,' but I'm not very good at turning away from something someone wants me to do. This week as we all met in our little UNESCO Committee for what was a rather important, indeed critical, meeting it emerged there was no-one to take a note. The Chairman's appeal was met by instant concentration upon either the floor or ceiling. So, of course, I volunteer as if I don't already have enough to do but take a detailed record of a three hour meeting.

It was ever thus. 'You do too much,' says my daughter kindly. And it is true and yet I have this feeling of impending doom that should I ever stop some kind of primeval cavern will open beneath my feet and I will no longer have a connection to the world.
That I will be unable to get out of bed, my teeth and hair will fall out and I will have to spend an entire morning opening a can of baked beans.

At least you can get rid of possessions, though these days the quantity of essential gadgets of one sort or another that one requires is enormous. And the more one does, I suppose, the more one is cluttered up with the detritus that comes with whatever role one happens to be playing.

Quite literally! I have boots, a fur coat, play scripts, envelopes of money, tickets, flyers (which I will be handing out in a few minutes under the Town Clock to advertise our next production) boxes of Treasurer's files, folders with receipts, other folders with statements, photographs - all cluttering me up - and that is from just from drama - one small part of my little life.

But by far the largest physical intrusion is the baby gear that comes with being a grandparent. When my children were little, we had one (small and collapsible) pram of which the body doubled as a carry cot. We had a tartan travelling cot - which served whether we travelled or not - one Maclaren single seat buggy. One child always had to walk or be carried. A few treasured soft toys. And that, so far as I remember, was that. My children were not noticeably deprived. One even took a first class degree.

Then we had two children, who lived with us. Now we have one grandchild who has spent no more than a three or four nights under our roof in the best part of the year.

And yet we have acquired (not purchased for these things seem simply to arrive by some mysterious and random process, like spiders): one stately home type pram, one high tech buggy, a high chair, a layette, another smaller pram, various blankets and babyclothes, a massive car seat that looks as though it is made for a baby elephant and an ottoman full of squeaky toys with mirrors and dangly bits, psychologist-designed games and other baby paraphrenalia.

Most of this is stored in our dining room - an otherwise elegant room - which has long since fallen from its dignified state since we needed a room in which to undertake the printing operations that are part of the business we run. The sideboard is pressed into service as a workbench, the table as a giant desk.

Behind wicker screens, tower stacks of label stocks all watched over by some interesting pictures, books (our walls seem to be plastered with book cases) and a stuffed grouse in a glass case acquired in some long forgotten antique shop and which I couldn't resist because the bird is the spitting image of the grouse on the famous bottle and I half expect to see him doing that little strutting walk at any moment.

Still whenever we have a party - as we did last Saturday when J had a birthday - all this - well not the grouse or the books - has to be moved and stowed into the main office and stockroom. It has to be stored in order and in layers until the space is filled from floor to ceiling. It may be good exercise, shuttling 10 kilogram rolls of labels and elephant sized car seats from one end of the house to the other, but it is exhausting.

And a bore! But it keeps us fit and in no time at all the dining room, complete with its Persian carpet (which came from my mother's Kensington flat 50 years ago and which has been trodden upon everyday often by many feet in heavy shoes and still shows not the slightest sign of wear, fading or staining despite being heavily peed on by the dogs, in the days when we had dogs, and therefore must rank as one of the more ecologically sound products of this or any other age) is back to its former elegant state.

But why, oh why do we need to be surrounded by such a draining whirlwind of possessions? Such myriad complexity? If I could get rid of everything in my house that wasn't designed at least fifty years ago I am not sure I wouldn't be happier and more elegant to boot, rather like the woman in the photograph.

But what about my darling little white Mac computer? That itself looks so elegant and functional, small enough to be tucked into a handbag, light enough to be carted wherever. On which I can watch all those television programmes that I missed when I was otherwise engaged in the clutter of my life? And speak to the wide, wide world? Ah well!

But then there has to be an exception to every rule. Doesn't there?