So I decided to be productive and decided that my closet needs decluttering. Because I apparently have a lot of clothes but nothing to wear. Which is due to the fact that I don't throw out things very eagerly, that I've gained quite some weight in the last few years and then some ten years ago but kept the clothes because they would be useful one day. Also, I lived in the damn hotel with some everyday basics and the rest stayed at home, vaguely remembered but not really used.
The stuff got sorted out by size rather vaguely and I stacked some of it in boxes in the attic. Upstairs I went... to discover rotting moldy floor. I picked up a few boxes which stood in the wet area - luckily it was yarn and I tend to pack my yarn in plastic bags anyway. The boxes happily disintegrated, I threw them away, relocated said yarn and phoned dad that the boiler is apparently leaking. A pic of destroyed parquet floor may follow, I made a few pics in case parents had some insurance to cover this (no they don't). Today I resumed digging in old clothes. All I managed is to spread a layer of random bits and pieces in the hallway and now I'm panicking. At least I have a small pile to throw away and another small pile to donate. Plus a major heap of rather nice stuff which is half a size smaller than yours truly - I'm approaching the pre-hotel weight (I might have gained around 13 kilos there due to stress and stress eating) so I'll keep it somewhere near the surface. It should feel good but somehow, it doesn't.