The word declutter is an unnecessary chimera, formed with unsavoury etymological coarseness, but the idea it expresses has merit. I’ve started in a small way in the study, discarding items I will never need like cardboard boxes saved up for a rainy day, and even, horror of horrors, books. And, with no little trepidation, I’ve taken down my “I am normal” notice. My rational self says it wasn’t responsible for psychological equilibrium. But was it? I thought it had artistic merit; the harsh beauty of the plain brown wrapping paper, the meticulously chosen typeface representing the inherently ambiguous nature of human sanity. Could these qualities have elicited a feeling of well-being to counterbalance the inner demon? Or acted as guiding star and constant reminder to maintain the semblance of normality? Obviously I removed the little bits of Scotch tape in case they weren’t recyclable and folded the paper neatly so that it didn’t take up too much space in the green bin. So I di
Simon Dobson's occasional musings, invectives and miscellaneous nonsense