I came home the other day to find my wok on the kitchen table. Not so odd, you may think. Woks are generally found in kitchens.

But mine was looking a bit dusty on account of spending the past two years in the loft.

Its re-emergence could only mean one thing: My husband was sorting out things for the charity shop again.

He has tried several times to get shot of my wok. And he has raised the same argument every time. "You haven't used it for nearly three years.

"That's because you put it in the loft," I retort.

"That's because you never used it," he snaps.

And so we go round in circles until the wok issue returns to the back-burner.

This time, however, he is more insistent about its destiny, along with a pile of my clothes that have been in a black bin liner in the loft since we moved here in 1998 and various other boxes of unpacked belongings.

We'll be moving again in just a matter of weeks and he's not keen to cart around junk that he thinks should never have been brought into this house in the first place.

Of course, my feelings are that this isn't junk. It's just stuff waiting for a renaissance. One day, when my hips have diminished, I may be able to get back into that tartan mini skirt.

I'm already pleased I didn't throw out my 20-year-old platform shoes - now all I need is the courage to wear them again.

The other thing is that I have no objection to lofts being filled with items from your past.

That's what lofts are for, surely? Even when they're turned into extra rooms, the conversion people still make sure you have cupboards in the eaves for all those fake Christmas trees and exercise bicycles and boxes of old love letters.

In fact, I always find a journey into our loft pleasingly nostalgic.

I don't want all the bits and bobs occupying our regular living space but I'm more than happy to have them among the rafters gathering fond memories.

Besides, I think my husband has an unhealthy obsession with taking our possessions to charity shops.

We've had to say goodbye to all manner of useful objects (large saucepans, a perfectly decent butter dish, self-help books on how to keep your home free from clutter) because, as he pointed out, our home was being crowded out by superfluities.

I've sometimes felt like going back down to the shop and buying it all back.

I can see how he has developed this desire to get rid of all excess baggage.

It must be a backlash against his own parents' hoarding tendencies.

His father still has around 300 golf balls, which he found while walking his dog 30 years ago. He doesn't even play the game.

But I still think my husband is overreacting.

"It's okay to have junk," I tried telling him this week. "We all have junk in our lives. It serves a purpose."

"What's that then?" he challenged.

I had to think fast. "It helps you to think about your existence in terms of past, present and future. You need the junk to remind yourself of where you've been."

"Yes," he said, picking up the wok. "And I know just where I'm going."