I just can’t get enough of decluttering – even when I run out of my own stuff

On a rainy bank holiday Monday, leisure activities are limited. After a busy weekend of work, which saw my seven-year-old bribed with sweets and largely ignored, I thought we’d do some baking together.

I say baking, but what I actually mean is stirring. A fridge cake is as about as much as I can manage. But my supermarket delivery company of choice didn’t have any golden syrup, which, as everybody knows, is the key ingredient.

The weekend’s headlines were dominated by doomsday tales of fuel and food supply shortages, and now I was seeing it in real time. Golden syrup is a cupboard staple. It never goes out of date. It’s second only to the noble cockroach in its infallibility. These are troubling times indeed.

Mercifully, the supermarket still had wine and crisps. If the lights go out, at least I’ve got all the main food groups covered.

So, what to do with a small child who is demanding a pyjama day but has already had far too much screen time over the holiday weekend?

We had to move to plan B. Our next favourite shared activity. Something that reminds me, though we look nothing alike, that she is definitely my daughter. We would have a declutter day! Prone as I am to whims and intense notions, decluttering has become my thing this year. I can’t get enough of it.

Though I should probably explain what I mean: this is categorically NOT tidying up or striving for a show home. My house is not beige and dust-free. My method of decluttering involves getting rid of as much stuff as possible so I don’t NEED to tidy up.

I embarked upon a big declutter at the start of the year. Though that probably undersells it a bit.

One day, when I was right in the thick of it, one of my friends popped round. He’s older than me and from that generation where “popping round’’ unannounced is a normal thing to do and not the terrifying ordeal that it is for us millennials.

So, there’s me thinking I’m opening the door to somebody safe, like the Amazon guy delivering more industrial-strength black sacks, and instead it’s my dear friend, there to witness the depths of my obsession. The hall was absolute carnage.

Fine for a nimble-footed wee Fifer to navigate, less so for a great muckle Glaswegian in Dr Martens

I hastily assured him that this was all part of the process. You can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs. You can’t declutter your house without turning it into a crime scene first.

Back to the rainy bank holiday Monday

and my decluttering plans had hit a roadblock: I’ve run out of clutter.

I sold an empty iPhone box, a pair of ugly shoes and a dusty pack of tiny batteries on Ebay last week. I used charm and shameless flirting to convince the woman in the charity shop to accept my two bags of book donations, rather than just the one that is permitted, as per the handwritten warning on the door. I’ve even got a lad from Gumtree coming to buy a barbell and weights set I bought on another whim but can’t lift without sustaining an injury. There’s nothing left.

But we live in an old tenement building, and each of the four flats has its own cavernous cellar...

Down the steps we trudged, still in our pyjamas. My daughter was in charge of the torch; I was in charge of the safety recon.

Each of the old red doors that led into our cellars represented opportunity.

The only time I’ve been in ours was when I was trying to find out where the gang of wasps that had infiltrated my house was coming from.

In our cellar, we came across our first piece of treasure. A Christmas tree, no less.

I got rid of our usual Christmas tree during Declutter 1, so this must be an oldie. Gumtree will be delighted.

Slightly disappointed at the emptiness of our cave, we moved on to the next. This involved what the feds would technically deem breaking and entering. But our neighbours are like family. I’m sure, if I had waited for them to wake up, they would have told me that their junk is my junk.

My seven-year-old didn’t want to wait. So we jimmied the ageing unlocked lock and peeked inside.

This one was much better. There was an eerie old painting that was probably smuggled into Scotland after an audacious

art heist. It also contained every treasurehunter’s fantasy: a dusty old chest.

To prolong the mystery, I told my daughter that morally, it’s probably wrong to open another man’s treasure chest.

When my upstairs neighbour rises for the day, I’ll get him to show us what’s inside. And then I’ll ask him, very sweetly, if he’ll indulge my decluttering obsession and let me get started on his cellar.

My neighbours would have told me that their junk is my junk

CLEARING UP: Emptying out unwanted clutter from cupboards – and even cellars – has proved very satisfying for many people.