Even pack rats get the blues

I live in a homing beacon for crap toys. For the past three years an entire galaxy of 'cheap and nasties' (term courtesy of A&E Mum) has found the magnetic draw of my house irresistible. My research indicates that this is due to my home's geographical location on the conversion point of two ancient polymer ley lines—it is essentially a semi-detached plastic henge.

For the first three years I didn't mind. I became a bit of a toy-pagan myself. My Mama Stockholm Syndrome reasserted itself and I began identifying with the junk, even giving the most hateful bits names: Creepy Dog, Molly Dolly, etc. But the clutter that alighted innocently at first began to flock in an increasingly Hitchcock-esque manner. Before long there was something menacing and undeniably stickerman about.

The Clutterati. 

Things went bump in the night—against the arch of my foot any time I was so foolish as to set foot out of bed. By day I was mad-dogged by their fearsome leader. Sometimes I could have sworn that he changed location without any human moving him.

One morning I had a premonition of a mighty judgement coming: a vision of myself turned into a plastic cat lady, buried under shape sorters and poorly-drawn fake plastic kitchen food. Clearly something had to be done. But for the life of me, I couldn't think of what.

Then, while stumbling over toys one day, I landed upon an insightful documentary on this very subject called 'Toy Story 3'. Inspired, I commenced operation 'Crap Toy Desertion'. Now the teeming plastic masses are in bin bags in the garage, bound for the charity shop (which is where most of them came from in the first place).

Riding off into the fake sunset. 

I can once again walk across my own sitting room without risking foot injury. All that remains is to hang garlic above the doors to prevent a recurring infestation.

I feel unburdened, weightless, peaceful, as I sit here. The first toy was the hardest to toss. But each one became easier, more rewarding, until I was chucking them into bin bags more rapidly than Sylvester McMonkey McBean throws Sneeches into his Star-On machine.

Hang up your plastic saddles. 

I had a joyous epiphany: having children doesn't have to mean a houseful of crap. Funniest thing about possessions: they grow to possess you, if you don't show them the door first.