Things have always made me unhappy. They bog me down. I prefer the lightness of experiences. They breeze in and out and through me. I don’t have to store them in a wardrobe. They don’t tumble down on my head when they’re stuffed into the top cupboard. They can just come for the ride and become part of me.
I have many theories on why material things shit me and why I shed them as soon as they’re thrust upon me (I’m constantly giving my things away to friends and staff). I’ve had to develop such theories because my aversion fascinates others and I’m constantly asked to explain myself. Others seem to find it hard to believe I have never owned a handbag. And that I’ve worn the