I recently returned from a week Up North. Highlights included catching up with family members (one of whom was visiting from New Zealand) over a country pub lunch, and friends over Wetherspoons rose.

At other times, however, I worked every bit as hard as I ever do on this fine publication. Practical tasks ranged from organising power of attorney to fixing my mother’s woeful wifi, but my main mission - whether or not I chose to accept it - was to help Mum divest herself of what might be politely termed “stuff” gathered over several decades.

A good friend’s mum calls this a “death clean”. It’s big in Sweden, apparently, and is all about decluttering ahead of the inevitable so your loved ones aren’t left sifting through a veritable Mount Everest of belongings.

A recent survey conducted by cleaning experts Dr Beckmann revealed that more than 70 per cent of UK adults - around 30 million of us - are hoarding things they don’t need. These fall chiefly into six categories: clothing, cleaning products, books, souvenirs (including photos and cards), music and paperwork.

Tackling the problem takes time, and involves a ruthlessness few of us possess when dealing with items of sentimental value.

Over the years, I have been actively encouraged to reclaim possessions from my teenage bedroom, with the end result that very little in it is now mine. Instead, it is packed to the rafters with not only my mother’s overspill, but also that of her partner, who died last year and left a houseful of his own affairs to be migrated into my mother’s.

Choice items include a wooden banana, more hole punches than one person has any right to own in the 21st century, and minutes from meetings held 30 years ago by clubs no longer in existence.

Just occasionally, long-forgotten gems would float to the surface: namely, cherished photographs of yours truly at a tender age, with a favourite dolly and sitting on Rupert Bear’s lap on Bridlington beach; and at the summit of Snowdon (as it was then), post A Level, sporting a very dodgy perm.

Then there were the sepia-tinted postcards from a bygone era – childhood, weddings, studio portraits, all depicting loved ones I had only ever known as “old”. My mum’s partners’ parents were like an extra pair of grandparents to me; seeing them in the flush of youth, him in uniform ahead of the Second World War, was deeply moving, especially in the knowledge that he would return from conflict for a lifetime of love and joy.

Some items were destined for the town museum. A set of glass plates shot at the local dockyard caused a frisson of excitement, less for the cute foreground of a swan followed by clutch of cygnets than for the existence of buildings long since demolished in favour of modern alternatives.

While we were there, the curator showed Mum a secondary school class photo featuring the two of them, while I eyed up display cases with a view to donating further items (eg. Royal Wedding and Jubilee paraphernalia currently gathering dust).

The back room resembled a wardrobe explosion, with a heated clothes airer keeping it all nice and toasty. Mum and I went through it all with a keep/donate/sell approach, and did several loads of washing - I left her young male next-door-neighbour looking at a line of oversized knickers blowing in the wind.

Naturally, I filled the car with bags and boxes aplenty, with the intention of selling online or (more likely) via car boot sales. I attempted in vain to sneak these into the house unseen by the Other Half. Predictably, Daughter fell upon many things with covetous eyes: “Ooh, shiny!”

Of course, it’s easy to go through other people’s affairs without the emotional attachment we have to our own. This much was evident when I returned home and scrutinised my surroundings. All the things I decry of my poor mother were there in abundance.

The floor by my bedside is buried beneath landslides of newspaper supplements kept for when I have time to read that last remaining fascinating article, while every drawer seems to contain yet more birthday/Christmas/New Home cards.

OH frequently stumbles across bras left in inappropriate places, and my wardrobe is hung solid with clothes I haven’t worn in years but can’t bring myself to ditch. Does it fit? Does it suit my current age/shape/lifestyle? Well, it might one day, and it cost good money.

This morning, I completed online training about a clean and clear workstation to avoid fire and injury hazards, in full knowledge I’d be hauled over the coals if HR ever witnessed the bomb site that passes as my home office, with my computer permanently on standby.

Perhaps the boss will grant me another week off to get my own house in order...

Note from the Editor: Nice try!