Yes folks, I am in ‘‘skipland’’. The mammoth three-cubic-metre trash bin on its very own trailer was backed into my driveway last week. It was big and red and enticingly empty. I hired it for three days. It was full to the brim within four hours. I loved it! Yes, I am now a self-confessed trashoholic, a fully deranged dispenser, a devious divester. Don’t put anything down on a flat surface because I have quietly cornered the market in dislodgement, removal and all-round jettisoning of household junk. I am thinking of starting a business called You Cherish It, We Chuck It.

The process was a little painful at the beginning, but after a few minutes of careful sorting and studious scrutiny of each article, an overwhelming urge to unburden myself took over. I then began flinging, tossing and propelling things with ever-increasing momentum. Ever so occasionally when I would stop for breath, I would put one small thing on the ‘‘to keep’’ pile, but then I would slap myself hard, re-group and start slinging unsorted goods again. It was the most liberating thing I have done in years.

My stepson, Rhyss, and my eldest son, Sam, were on hand to do the heavy lifting, as the much-admired bin was way too high off the ground for me to reach. Yep, that is how big it was! It was full up to pussy’s bow in what seemed like minutes and I was soon back on the phone organising its pick-up – and, most importantly, ordering another one for next week.

When I leave this house, I will have lived here for just on 26 years. And that is a long, long time to accrue lots and lots of stuff to sift and sort through. So I confess I have gone for the one out, all out approach. The minute you start umming and ahhing about whether to keep some strange memento – or worse still, some article of clothing you haven’t worn, or indeed fitted into, since the ousting of Gough Whitlam – it is time to toss it into the bin.