It’s not hoarding, it’s collecting.
I recently commandeered my mantelpiece as a bookshelf, and now our heating has changed from coal to bio-fuel, I appear to taking over the hearth, as well. All around the house are piles of books arranged in what I am kidding myself are arty piles, stacked in wicker picnic hampers up the stairs. I’m also tempted to try one of these book Christmas trees, but that won’t be cool come February.
What I really need is decent shelves, lining all the walls, which is my dream for the next time I buy somewhere, but this house is not only rented, but the has not been re-plastered since Victoria was on the throne, and any kind of drilling causes giant chunks to fall off. Hell, even stripping the wallpaper makes the plaster fall off, like trying to shell a misbehaving hard-boiled egg.
I have book cases everywhere, and since I find it almost impossible to get rid of books, I’ll just keep needing to buy more cases, and find more ingenious and less dangerous ways of stacking them. That is until my daughters sends my name into one of those hoarding programs, or stages an intervention.