Dear Geraldine

When my husband retired, I thought the worst we’d face was him rearranging the spice rack. Instead, he discovered Marie Kondo on Netflix and began attacking forty years of clutter.

Bliss.

At first.

Now I can’t leave a shopping list unattended for more than an hour without it being “KonMari’ed” (as he calls it). He spends his days whispering thanks to things before stuffing them into bin liners, which then clutter the bedroom floor so badly that I need crampons and survival rations to reach the bed.

The problem is, most of the “joyless” objects he bags up are mine. My wool cardigans. My recipe books. Even the photos of my late mother, which, apparently, “no longer spark joy for him.” If I can’t come up with a persuasive reason why something deserves shelf space, it’s gone.

So, Geraldine, can you please cast a compulsion and make him stop? I married a man, not a one-man refuse collection service. If this carries on, I fear I’ll soon be thanked politely and carried out with the recycling.

Yours despairingly,

Decluttered of Welston

Dear Decluttered,

Congratulations: you married a man who has mistaken Netflix for a life philosophy. One suspects that if you linger too long in one place, he’ll have you folded into thirds and popped in a KonMari-approved storage bin.

Don’t ask me to compel him. He’s already under a compulsion. The only cure is to give him a taste of his own medicine.

The next time he nods off in front of Bargain Hunt, thank him sincerely for his decades of service, drop him in a bin liner, and leave him at the kerb with a note reading: “Does not spark joy.”

If this feels too extreme, there’s a gentler option. Put a large “Donation” label on him while he’s dozing in front of the television. Nothing sobers a zealot faster than realising he’s next for the charity shop. While I can’t guarantee that will reignite a spark, I’m certain you’ll find him better company than his joyful sock drawer.

Yours untidily,

Geraldine

PS Cancel your Netflix subscription.