There's a Tutankhamen quality about attics.
When we were down at my mother's she was clearing her attic out and we brought certain things away with us: a 1950s coffee table with an illustrated map of London behind its glass top, a nice wrought-iron fire screen.
I have a book by Father Martin D'Arcy I found in the attic of my old house in Cambridge. It's a ratty old wartime paperbook, totally without value. But I won't get rid of it . It has talismanic value. It's treasure trove.
Since last week we've had an attic of our own. The guy came and laid flooring in the roof space and put in a trap door and ladder. It's the warmest room in the house.
Our attic is gradually filling up: two lamp standards, a couple of chests of drawers, lots of boxes full of all sorts.
I wonder who will get to bring them down.