They never know what they will find – from fleas to Picassos to Soviet missiles beneath the stairs. But what they do is crucial and cathartic

A soup of stuff sits on the desk in front of me: remote controls, spectacles, a fly swatter, a medication box, a pebble paperweight inscribed with the owner’s name. Even false teeth, lying where they were discarded. This is personal yet familiar clutter: we all have our own version.

I am in the front bedroom turned office and music studio of a stranger. Every conceivable object seems to have migrated here, creating shaky piles of paraphernalia that encapsulate a life’s passion. There is some impressive retro recording equipment, keyboards, a horn, all coated with a thick layer of dust.