We homed in on it from fifty yards away. A small chest of drawers, dumped on the pavement beside the rubbish bins. Ugly handles and battered feet, but, hey, the wood was sound and the drawers still slid in and out with ease. Oblivious to the stares of passers-by, we circled the object of our covetousness, before common sense came to the rescue.
Twenty years ago, it would have come home with us, to be stripped down and restored to useful life. Twenty years ago, the hours we spent in the back garden, doing up battered finds with a cup of tea to hand, were therapeutic. But now? We have accumulated too much stuff: the house is full; the loft is full; the garage is slowly filling up.
Scrubbing, sanding, repainting and revarnishing now belong to the land of lost content. Time to let the younger generation carry off the plunder.