Non, je ne regrette rien – or do I?

I should have seen it coming when I was six and I pleaded with my mother not to put some old cutlery in the garbage because it had been good to us.

How long did I finally take to turf love letters from someone I no longer liked? Why do I hang on to clothes that no longer fit or that I'll never wear again, even on the off-chance I'll be invited to just that kind of fancy-dress party? I don't know, but I don't regret ditching the floral '70s jumpsuit.

Maybe I do regret getting rid of my maxi-length black leather Merivale coat. But come to think of it, by the time I did pass it on I was long past trying to squeeze and arm into it, let alone the rest of me. Maybe I regret not still having the teeny-weeny Mickey Mouse t-shirt I wore under it, tucked into blue jeans which were tucked into knee-high black boots.

I will always regret throwing away my Merrythought monkey – known affectionately as 'Monkey' – because he was my very best friend for many years, and I didn't ever fall out of love with him. It still haunts me that once upon a time I dutifully packed his suitcase for our holidays away – with what I'm not sure because he didn't wear clothes – and then I cold-heartedly sent him packing. To make matters worse, I also dispatched his best friend and my second-best friend, Honey Bear, because he too had lost his looks. But truthfully, how long can a grown woman lug around her moth-eaten soft toys?

Mind you, I hold onto my mother's Freddie Fox hats – which I don't wear. And I still have my son's first shoes, his first book, the Harrods nightdress he wore home from hospital, his primary school paintings and 'it was a dark and stormy night' stories. I have his soft toys.

In decades of decisions there are bound to be hits and misses, unless you play hardball and get rid of the lot.