The madness that is my wardrobe finally got to me. I’ve spent eight hours critically assessing almost every shirt, skirt, pair of trousers, jumper, cardigan, dance costume in my wardrobe. Nothing was sacred.

Hundreds of clothes were dumped on my floor. I put on each item and reviewed the form, fit and fashion in the mirror. Where there was doubt, I pulled out the big guns — my mum.

I ended up with two piles: one for “clothes for which there is no hope, they must die now” and another for “clothes that’ll look great after a few weeks of resistance training” (resistance does not refer to weights alone).

It’s funny the way fashion changes. I found relics that I used to wear proudly (remember Tencel?). Many items were, as my mum said, “not too ugly”, but my tolerance for clothes that make me look bad has plunged. And still, there were tops and skirts that were perfectly serviceable but I hadn’t worn them for two years. Obviously, I can live without them.

The net upshot of all this is that I have purged from my life about 120 litres of clothes. I know the volume because I filled two of these boxes. They were 60 litres each.