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OK, I have a confession. I’m a domestic slut rather than a domestic goddess.

You won’t find weevils in my cereal or discarded bowls of forgotten food stuffed under the sofa. I can’t stand dust, dirt and mouldy food.

I even caught myself running my finger along a skirting board the other day in a terrifying Stepford Wives moment.

Yet, although my home is a gleaming triumph of 21st century cleaning products, true horror lurks behind those sparkly clean facades.

There’s danger in them there closets! Anyone daring to investigate my wardrobe is more likely to emerge with concussion than a designer trophy.

My defence is that it’s freaky to reach your 40s and still be a minimalist. Most of us have gathered a motley crew of family, friends, children and in-laws by the time middle age sets in – and along with the living clutter comes the inanimate.

By this point in life, stuff has mysteriously collected around you.

Just what is so special about that letter from my maths teacher when I was 13? Do I really need three shoeboxes full of embarrassing photos of my teenage holidays in Greece with people I don’t recognise?

I can’t pull out a drawer in my house without risking serious injury. Every nook and cranny is crammed with letters, photos, books, notebooks and bric-a-brac.

Then there are the clothes, a bone of contention among friends who’ve all tried, at one point or another, to help me thin out a wardrobe amassed over three decades.

My last effort at a clear-out was about four years ago. It ended up with me wrestling a friend to the floor to retrieve one small dustbin liner full of virtual rags that we’d spent eight hours debating the merits of.

“You’ll never be a size 6 again!” my friend screamed at me.

“What about my daughter?” I asked indignantly, to which she rightly retorted that I didn’t yet have one.

Well, now I do, and with two kids, Molly, three, and Danny, two, to collect for as well as myself, things are getting out of hand.

Molly has inherited my hoarding tendencies and burst into tears the other day when I tried to throw away a pair of her knickers that had lost their elastic.

How do you part with items you’ve spent hard-earned cash on, or which hold fond memories? I need Molly’s first pair of Converse to drool over when I’m 90.

Can anyone be sure that purple flares won’t come back into fashion? What can you use old G-strings for? These are the big questions I’m forced to ask myself.

The other day I found myself wondering if I could free up more space by chucking out my long-suffering husband – he’s already relegated to one drawer and a couple of coat hangers. Well, it’s him or my collection of half-used suncreams!