Allison Pearson - Mistress Of Minimalism (Not!)

OUR BRILLIANT COLUMNIST FINDS MEANING AMONG THE CLUTTER

Moving house last month meant that I got to do the Mother of All Spring Cleans. Here was a chance to cast off the stuff I had been lugging around for half my adult life like one of those peasant women you see in a Bruegel painting pulling an ox-cart through a lake of mud. I was looking forward to releasing my inner Marie Kondo after my friend Claire gave me a tour of her own bedroom. Claire’s wardrobe rail was hung with a few well-chosen pieces, unlike mine, which was so crowded that multiple garments shared a single hanger and I could never find what I was looking for. I particularly liked the drawer in which Claire’s recently Kondoed pants were rolled up small and cute, like sleeping hamsters.

According to the American life coach Martha Beck, “Our living spaces are basically three-dimensional portraits of our inner lives.” Oh, heck. In my mind’s eye, my living space is as serene and harmonious as a five-star hotel – all pale wood and white fluffy towels, through which I waft in dove-grey cashmere leisure wear showing off my effortlessly lithe frame, honed from Pilates lessons (the ones I will be taking just as soon as my house is tidy enough to find the leaflet…). But in reality, on account of my undying devotion to the You Never Know (When That Might Come in Useful) principle, my home is less spa, more Steptoe and Son’s yard.