As the pained-yet-patient wife of a Doctor Who fan, who had agreed to exterminate his collection with help from an auction house, once said: “I’m locking my husband in a straitjacket in the garden shed so he can’t bid on any of it again.”
For years, it had filled a cellar wondrously. Like every other geek who saw the news reports, I yearned for the old-fashioned, futuristic junk.
There was a genuine Dalek from the 1966 film Daleks – Invasion Earth: 2150 AD.
There was a Cyberman and a Tardis, plus some Spitting Image puppets, an egg from one of the Alien films and so many more goodies.
I salivated, coveting them all.
I had no chance, of course. I already have too much stuff and I often rail against the need for possessions, because it’s a drag to have them.
During my last house move, which was transatlantic, I ditched literally shedloads of things and wrote about it here. It felt great.
But I suffer from a collector’s hypocrisy. I’ll glare at my wife’s shoe collection and ignore the dozens of boxes of 2000 AD comics (featuring Judge Dredd and in orbit every Monday) that travelled with us and now fill my basement.
I think everybody has their thing. Maybe it’s football stickers, horse brasses, or thimbles.
Maybe it’s lobby cards or top hats or socks. Maybe it’s spoons with town crests on them. Whatever it is, it’s us.
Our interests are part of our identity and, as we age and allow our passions to accrue, they make up more of what we are, becoming more than just things. They’re experiences and memories, too.
So, even as I felt sympathy for that Whovian’s wife, and sadness that he will be losing a Dalek as he regains a cellar, I felt joy that his interest could spread pleasure among everyone who read about it or perhaps bought something.
As for me, I’m content with a little ceramic Tardis, partly because it hides custard creams inside.
Mind you, there’s room for another next to it on the shelf.
One more won’t hurt, will it?
