The best way of clearing junk is to move house, preferably into something smaller where it won’t fit. This isn’t to say I don’t still have stuff that my children will dispose of as they see fit after I’m dead: the stuff that’s of sentimental value to me, and no value at all to them. Fair enough. I won’t care by then, will I, and why should they clutter their houses with it? My mother’s hand-painted coffee set, my grandmother’s Wedgewood biscuit barrel (proper dark blue Wedgewood, not the anaemic excuse they sell now), my grandfather’s roll-top desk… With a bit of luck some of it will even be worth money. But meanwhile I enjoy it. And if I enjoy it, does it qualify as junk?
The one thing I will try to whittle down before my ultimate demise is paper. Reams of it, all charting my writing efforts from go to woe. Woe indeed. None of it worth keeping. I just haven’t got around to it yet. Too busy adding more, at a table covered with junk that I find delightfully friendly and wholly satisfying.