It's the little things that are the real headache. There are, of course, the bags of string harvested from long-forgotten parcels, the half-empty pots of paint, the carefully folded carrier bags, the old diaries with their long-past dental and doctor's appointments and lists of telephone numbers, the cracked plates and battered spoons.

It's obvious what to do with them - you throw them out. They're no longer any use to anyone. In fact, they weren't ever of much use, or they'd not still be there. But they were kept, just in case, in that thrifty way people kept things - especially people of my godmother's generation, who lived through the shortages of a world war. Now we know they're never going to come in handy.

We've lately had to sort out the flat in Paris where my godmother had lived for most of her adult life, until her death last year. She had no family left alive, so it fell to us to do this last thing for her.

We've done it before, for my in-laws, so we had some idea of what to expect. We know that it feels strange, as if you were rifling through the life of someone, as if everything that was private about them is now exposed. All those old letters, the photograph albums of people long dead and long forgotten, the books no-one wants to read, the ornaments treasured because of the memories they held.

All those little things that were once an intrinsic part of someone's life, now just a problem, a case of "what do we do with these?" It does give you pause for thought.

First of all, it makes you much more ready yourself to throw things out. We've both of us been hoarders, in our different ways. We used never to throw out a book, however unloved or never-likely-to-be-read, or dispose of an ornament. But the experience of clearing out someone's house after they've died makes you look at things differently. You realise what a problem you could be leaving for your loved ones when your time comes.

So, that old novel you never finished reading, because it bored you to tears, is off to the charity shop. That 37-year-old wedding gift from a family friend long deceased - you've never liked it and there's no longer any danger that the donor will notice it's gone. Someone else might like it.

There are the unworn clothes, too, and the blankets you've not used since you went over to duvets, decades ago.

But there are still some things that don't get thrown out and never will so long as you live. There are the letters you'll always treasure. The sort of diaries in which you confide your deepest emotions, or lovingly record every detail of that wonderful holiday. There are the photographs, decades worth of them.

And you know that, one day, someone will be going through your things and will find them all. They too, like us, will feel that sense of intrusion. But there'll also be surprises. "I never knew she thought that!", you exclaim. Or "I never guessed she once liked this, or wanted to do that" And you wish then that you could go back, with that deeper understanding of the dead person, and talk to them about the things you've found, the things you've discovered.

But it's too late now, and you never will. Unless, of course, there really is an afterlife and that's one of its pleasures.

Published: 11/08/2005