Paperwork is a source of frustration for many. The endless forms to complete, bills to settle, statements to organize, and receipts to retain create a daunting pile that seems to grow indefinitely. Eventually, this accumulation becomes unmanageable, toppling under its own weight and scattering the disorganized sheets across the floor like a dispiriting hand of cards.

In moments like these, I find myself wishing I could adopt the carefree attitude of a friend who managed a department at a private school. His institution was one that catered to students needing to retake exams that their previous schools had failed to help them pass. At the conclusion of each term, he would survey the chaos of his desk and, with a resigned expression, grab a bin bag. He would discard every piece of paper—opened or unopened—along with miscellaneous items like candy wrappers and bits of rolling tobacco. All of it would be sent to the landfill, while he would head off on vacation, returning to a clean desk the following term.

While this behavior might seem questionable, there is something enviable about his approach. To my knowledge, he faced no consequences for his actions, suggesting that perhaps there is a lesson to be learned here.

I wish I could muster the courage—or perhaps the recklessness—to adopt such a philosophy, but I find myself compelled to engage in the tedious task of organizing, or at least attempting to organize, my paperwork. I often grapple with determining what to keep and why, leading me to err on the side of caution and retain everything. My friend’s disregard for decision-making contrasts sharply with my own hesitation; while we both struggle with the burden of paperwork, he chose to eliminate it entirely.

I know that a paperless approach is a viable option, and I do use it for certain documents, though I can’t recall the rationale behind which items I chose to digitize. My colleague, Martin Lewis, the renowned money-saving expert, even suggested I take photographs of my paperwork. I attempted this, but after just 15 minutes of crawling around and snapping pictures with my phone, my knees protested, forcing me back to my disorganized filing cabinet.

Inside the cabinet, overflowing files dangle precariously from the rails, their hooks bent and struggling under the weight. Some have even fallen to the ground. I’ve also had no success with the little tabs meant to identify each file; they either fall off or lose their labels, leaving the contents nameless and suspended in a state of confusion.

It’s commonly understood that certain documents must be retained for six years, with different durations applicable to various types of paperwork. Unfortunately, I often forget the specifics. Even if I could find the time to determine which rules apply to which documents, the reality is daunting. With April 2026 approaching, it would mean I should start sifting through everything from April 2020 to shred what is no longer necessary. But who actually does this?

Thus, my collection continues to expand, both endlessly and without value, as I inevitably find that when I need a specific document, I can never locate it. My filing cabinets resemble my memory during a pub quiz; all the information may be there, yet I cannot retrieve it when needed.

Adrian Chiles is a broadcaster, writer, and columnist for The Guardian.

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