Dawn Picken: Decluttering needs to be a joint effort

It arrived. All 16 kilogrammes' worth, dating to the early 1900s. Its name is Underwood. As in typewriter.

A dirty dish mountain mocks me from around the corner. I struggle to ignore its silent plea: "Clean this mess. Clutter, clutter, clutter..." I hate clutter. Which is why, during school holidays, I finally sorted and purged a large bag of papers and other flotsam and jetsam from my old office. My daughter and I painted two rooms, and I pitched more junk. Feeling smug. While not everything is in place, I've done what I can.

At the end of this fleeting moment of self-satisfaction, it came. All 16kg worth, dating to the early 1900s. Its name is Underwood. As in typewriter. And Frank Underwood, the character I love to hate in the Netflix series House of Cards. Underwood is a gift from my husband, Pete, who found it online and brought it home, proudly, as if he'd landed a giant bluefin tuna. Did I throw my arms around Pete, saying, "Oh, Honey, I love it," or, "How thoughtful!"? No, with a smidge of shame, I tell you, I did not. What popped out, like a sneaky belch, was, "I hope you didn't spend a lot." 'I' stands for Ingrate.

Pete says, "I thought of you, because - it's an Underwood. And it'll remind you you're a writer." I tell him I'm reminded daily as I sit at my computer. Hubby will clean the Underwood in hopes I might one day hear a satisfying "ping" from the carriage-return bell. Meanwhile, I have a dusty, non-working artefact I could use for weight training - maybe overhead presses.

I cart the typewriter to the stuff repository - what we call the rumpus - a room designed for parties, watching TV and hiding idle objects like souvenir shot glasses, replica aeroplane and leftover liqueurs. Sometimes, we stash children there.

My rules for stuff are: it must be useful, beautiful or sentimental. I prefer the first and try to avoid collecting the last. The stuff aversion started when I tossed or sold most of my possessions - furniture, cars, clothing, tools, toys... before leaving America to drag the kids around the world. We arrived in New Zealand six years ago, bearing six suitcases. I shipped just a small box of books (our stay here was meant to last six months). About 20 milk crate-sized boxes of photo albums and my late husband's mementos remain at my Dad's in America. And yet - I've managed to amass a house worth of junk while living under this Long White Cloud.

What if, instead of an antique typewriter, Hubby had spent $50 on a charity that feeds the homeless? I doubt this will happen. So often, we give gifts we would like to receive, or we anticipate what our loved one would want without realising circumstances have changed. In one of my favourite short stories, O. Henry's The Gift of the Magi, wife, Della, sells her long hair to buy husband, Jim, a chain for his pocket watch. Problem is, he sold the watch to buy the wife combs for her hair. Maybe it was the thought that counted. Or maybe surprising each other was a bad idea.

Hubby likes stuff. I like experiences. I broke this to him after a birthday where he showered me with mini speakers, a mini blender and other paraphernalia I've since forgotten. "Hon, I appreciate the gesture," I said. "But what I really want is for us to share an adventure." We spent my next two birthdays cycling from winery to winery in Hawke's Bay and white water rafting the Wairoa River. Lesson learned? Nah, you can't take the scavenger out of the magpie. I live in fear of what Hubby will bring home. Two bicycles (not working) from the tip; several computer monitors that haven't been powered since the early noughts; half a heat pump; rarely-used wetsuits and surf boards; enough winter coats (work freebies) to clothe a ski team...

The Guy Code apparently requires keeping the stuff forever. Because: a) He spent too much; or b) You never know.

I once donated a pair of Pete's 30-year-old speakers that were collecting dust in the garage. Their front grates were rusty, and I couldn't recall ever hearing them in action. Hubby kept shifting the doorstops from rented flat to apartment, to rental house until I couldn't take it anymore. "He's got at least three other sets," I told myself. "Maybe he won't notice."

He noticed. The fact we're still together following my high-fidelity hi jinks is testament to Pete's patience. Or the fact he has more speakers in reserve.
My birthday's about a month away. In case you were wondering, I don't need gifts - I have an Underwood.