I used to be a hoarder. Not the ‘Clean House’ kind, the “Baby, what if the other seven exquisitely displayed sugar cube holders break?” kind.
But fortunately, for a number of reasons, life changed from ‘hhm, you two are doing nicely’, to ‘shame, this is a garden cottage’ and quickly cured me of my hoarding ways. Now I have a Nazi-esque regime as to what comes into my house and stays.
One of the few things that survived the charity shop gas chambers was a collection of tins. It started with cigarette tins but I soon realised I was missing out on gems that said things like ‘Quickies Cleansing Pads’ and ‘Midget Pins’ and ‘Boil Dressings for You’ so it became any kind of tin that had lived a bit and looked like it had personality. I like them because they make me think of a time when things were well made, families sat down for dinner together, anything less than a petticoat was naked and people did what they said they were going to do.
Two of my favourite ones come from the wife of a friend of my ex who took them off her farm kitchen shelf saying ‘I can’t believe you collect these little pieces of junk too. Let’s drink Gluwein and talk about our men..’
So now they all live in my bathroom, Presticked to the wall. Little boxes of rusty memories.