I don't often admit it but I'm actually a bit of an old softie at heart.

When Bambi's mother was killed I snivelled my way through an entire box of tissues, while those brave little bunnies in Watership Down produced a lump the size of a golf ball in my throat.

Sometimes the tears catch me unawares. I was watching a television programme last week when I realised my eyes were beginning to mist over.

"Oh, that woman, that poor, poor woman," I said out loud. "I know exactly what she's going through and it's so cruel."

"What are you talking about now?" said The Mother who was ignoring the TV screen in favour of the latest Ruth Rendell.

"It's a new programme," I explained. "This woman is being forced to throw away all her treasured possessions, all her old photographs, letters, soft toys.

"These so-called experts are saying she'll feel liberated once she has got rid of all the clutter from her past."

"Quite right," said The Mother. "I'm no expert but that's exactly what I've been telling you to do since I moved in."

And she has - which was obviously why I could so readily empathise with the unfortunate woman on the screen.

I am a hoarder. At least, that's what The Mother calls me. I prefer to describe myself as a collector.

I have a dislike of throwing anything away until it is either too dated to be of any use or has acquired a thick coating of dust.

Even then I sometimes salvage these sad remnants, stash them away in carrier bags and take them to a place of safety.

At one time, this may have been behind the settee in the living room or in the cupboard under the stairs. Since The Mother moved in, all that has had to change.

A minimalist long before it became fashionable, she possesses a terrifying ruthlessness when it comes to cutting back on personal memorabilia - mine in particular.

A case, I suspect, of one woman's treasures (mine) being another woman's rubbish (hers).

So, in recent months, I have withdrawn myself and my so-called clutter into what, I assumed, was the sanctuary of my bedroom.

But this new television programme gave The Mother an excuse to do what she has been craving to do since she arrived - blitz my Aladdin's cave. All for my benefit, for my personal "liberation", of course.

She was standing in the doorway of my bedroom, tutting and sighing and saying what a nice room it would be if only I didn't treat it as a warehouse and what would people think when I came to sell the house ... ?

The Mother returned with two large bin liners. "If you make a start now you could have this room looking lovely by the weekend," she purred.

"Just do what they did on the TV programme - put all the things you know you don't need into one bag and those you can't quite decide about into the other."

So I did my best and, by the weekend, there was one bin liner bulging to capacity and another almost empty.

The Mother was delighted. "Now this is progress!" she said.

I haven't told her yet that the bulging bin liner is the one containing everything I couldn't quite decide about. Everything, in other words, I intend to keep.

I've got the tissues handy for when I do ... I think someone is going to need them.