The conversion of our mystery room into an attic is complete. To be honest, it was already an attic – it was just that the ceiling hatch had been plastered over, so no one knew it was there – but Mark the builder has installed new loft boards and a sliding ladder. It’s ready for use. I’ve been away, but when I come home my wife leads me upstairs to show me the new hatch door. “Nice,” I say. “It came with this,” she says, handing me a pole. “How does it work?” I say. “I don’t know. I haven’t tried.” I proceed logically, and slowly. It’s clear the tip of the pole is designed to undo the hatch latch, and the hook on the end is for grabbing the folded-up ladder by the bottommost rung, to tug it down. After that things come at me fast: the ladder cascades from the ceiling, heading directly for the bridge of my nose. I catch it just in front of my face. “Was that supposed to happen?” I say. “What do you think?” my wife says. It takes me a while to figure out how to undo the clips to make the ladder continue all the way to the floor, but the real challenge comes when I try to put it back: it’s impossible to push the ladder into its folded position – as it nears its final resting place the hook slips off the rung, and the ladder crashes back down toward me, every time. “This is ridiculous,” I say, after 20 minutes of jumping out of the way. “Mark’s going to love this story,” my wife says. “You know what would be helpful for putting this ladder away?” I say. “Another ladder.” The next morning Mark and my wife are already laughing about me when I come downstairs. “All good?” Mark says, smiling broadly. “I’ve decided to get some stairs that come down automatically when you press a button,” I say. “What it is, there’s a guard up there to stop the ladder going over,” Mark says. “Or maybe just a lift,” I say. I’m away again when my wife starts to fill the loft with junk that had been stored in other parts of the house; she has the youngest one come round and help her. By the time I return the job is done – it only remains for me to stand on the ladder with my head sticking into the attic, while my wife narrates from below. “To your right, all the camping stuff,” she says. “Turning anticlockwise, you’ll notice curtains and blankets, followed by children’s clothes and toys, sporting equipment, books and photographs.” I think: did we really spend money just to have somewhere to store old baby shoes? At least it’s done, I think. But it’s not done. The next day my wife drives to Oxfordshire and comes back with a car full of our stuff that has been stored in her sister’s barn for a decade. “Couldn’t you have just stopped at the dump on the way?” I say. “Most of it’s yours,” she says. It’s true: most of the boxes are filled with books and papers accounting for a 25-year chunk of my existence. “I’ve been looking for this stuff for eight years,” I say. “I very much doubt that,” she says. She has a point: what looks enticing piled up in a box quickly becomes dispiriting when you dig down. I have never missed my signed letter from Peter Stringfellow (nor was it my idea to frame it) or an entire box of faxes from 1998. I did not need to re-read an ancient article I wrote slagging off the Millennium Dome, which stirred no memory of ever having written it. I could probably throw 95% of the stuff away, but that would mean going through it all first, which does not seem like a good use of my remaining time on Earth. This, I think, is what attics are for – to hold decisions you never want to make. “I have a system,” my wife says. “It’s best if I’m the taker.” She means that she sits in the attic while I pass everything up. “Do that painting next,” she says. “It won’t fit through the hole,” I say. “I’ve fitted bigger things than that through this hole,” she says. “Pass it.” As we load I worry about the terrible weight of all these memories. Literally: I wonder if the joists can take it. But after half an hour, it’s done – the past safely sealed away. “And then, lastly, you wait below to make sure I get down safely,” my wife says. But I don’t hear this bit because I’m already in the kitchen.