It's 640am in the morning, the thought that attachment is over is such an energy booster. Even when the next few days promise to be even more cluttered.

There's this room in my house, where Dadd keeps all his antiques, each claiming to be worth thousands when resold in the future. Some pretty, some smelly, some fragile, some hideous, some displayed.

Mum naturally complains; she has to do all the mopping and dusting and sneezing. Me and Bel are indifferent. There is enough space in the house (quite a big house). And there is no need for anything bulky these days, we just want our ipod nanos, handphones, flatscreen tvs.

Aunties say don't bring suspicious "unclean" objects into the house, you could be asking for trouble. Mum wants the space for a music room. So I guess we'll be getting rid of all the antiques finally. Mum can vacuum up the whole place, and with a bit of luck the vacuum bag won't burst.

But Dad says stop! You never know how much they will be worth 10years down the road. These things grow in value over the years, like cheese and wine. Or they could breed termites and things will be messier than a burst vacuum bag.

And we wonder why!