I am trying to get a grip on my things as I organise my packing. I look around and suddenly the thought strikes me. I am a collector. A rabid collector. There is nothing I don’t collect. Bills. Statements. Books. Cassettes. Restaurant order slips. Doctor’s prescriptions. Ball point pens. Brochures and those little flyers about savings accounts, insurance, credit points (which I never use). Packets. Boxes. Newspapers. Magazines. Shoes (falling apart). Notebooks. Lipsticks. Shampoo bottles. Memos. Bits and pieces of paper from god knows when. Bus/train/airplane tickets. Photocopies of certificates (not in singles, but multiples). Letters. Notes. Water bottles. And all from years and years ago. Stuff that I have absolutely no use for today. Why do I do it? I have no idea. I keep thinking I might need that particular bill/note/object someday in the future. As if! I find it difficult to throw away stuff. I’m turning into my father, I think. Dad loves to collect newspapers. He has newspapers, probably from the year I was born. (And that my dear folks, was …