With a house move in prospect, it has become clear that I can no longer let my hoarding instinct go unchallenged. If I throw away a few things every day, maybe by moving day in June I can pare down my possessions enough to fit into the small flat I’ll be occupying. A stack of folders, a wad of miscellaneous papers, one shelf of books, a small section of my wardrobe or half an underwear drawer every day… Do I really need those sexy pants any more when nobody sees them but me? The socks with worn out heels I could use as dusters? The T-shirt that’s ridiculously tight or impossibly baggy or that has stretched so it reaches my knees but would be fine for a summer nightshirt. No, no and no.

In these days of instant communication by email, by WhatsApp, by social media, it’s a rare treat to receive a postcard, even though racks of them are still displayed outside every tourist shop. So, as part of my mission to discard what I don’t strictly need, I decided this month to tackle a large and dusty shoebox crammed with postcards from all over the world. Skimming through them, I realised they dated back to 1960 or before, to old primary school friends I haven’t heard from since. My French penfriend when I was fourteen. An ex-lover, sadly no longer alive, signed with a single initial. My children at different ages, with a clear progression in their handwriting and spelling. My cards to them as well: Darling Tom and Corinne… missing you so much. My Russian friend on International Women’s Day, long before it was celebrated or even heard of in the West. Passing friends whose names mean nothing to me, and those I’m still in touch with but who no longer send cards from every holiday (or any) as they did for years, it seems.

So many stories these cards could tell. I imagine their journey from Zimbabwe or Chile, South Africa or Mexico, Russia or Bali. Or from places as familiar to me now as Granada, Málaga and the Alpujarra, long before I ever imagined living in Spain. Remote corners of Ireland from the late sixties, countries that no longer exist like Yugoslavia; the many exotic destinations of the cruise ships my daughter worked on over twenty years ago: the Antilles, Alaska, New Orleans; my son’s world travels before settling down to a career and family: Zanzibar, the Australian outback, Buenos Aires. But I also find cards from Birmingham or Manchester, cards with animals, museum exhibits or paintings, awe-inspiring mountains: Annapurna, the Alps. Those picturing resorts with sandy beaches are the minority. The quality of the photos improves the later the dates – garish colours become more subtle, angles more original.

The words tend to be banal, the weather being the most dominant subject. Those with original or humorous messages are a treat, but every single one was welcomed and enjoyed at the time. I could imagine them being written under a beach umbrella or perched on a hotel bed, at a restaurant table splashed with oil or wine or on the deck of a ship. Or perhaps on the steps of some Hindu temple or Crusader castle.

I’ve cut off the stamps to give to a stamp-collecting friend. They too tell a story. British stamps for a halfpenny – that’s ½d, from the days of pounds, shillings and pence; stamps with athletes, astronauts, flowers and much else, not just kings or queens or presidents.

The cards remain in a bag under my table, ready for the recycling skip. I’m trying to be strong and discard them in just for a few more days…