Hoard like it's inheritance

We at the Rasool residence are currently in the grip of a small crisis. There we were watching Apples Never Fall, when a set of rogue static lines crept across Annette Benning's face before rapidly colonising the screen. We could hear every word she was saying. We just couldn't see her underneath the blanket of static.

I read Apples Never Fall two years ago, so this static situation was less of a problem for me than it was for my saintly other half, who saw it as a personal challenge. He believed that via a series of YouTube videos and a random ethernet cable from his man drawer, he could give the TV the kiss of life and free it from this wretched static once and for all. He cannot bear to admit defeat and drive it to the tip just yet. You can take the boy out of Karachi, but you can't take the Karachi out of the boy. After all, when you have grown up in a land where there is something who can fix almost anything - and the storage space to hoard it all, just in case - why would you ever throw anything away?

No need to declutter if everything can be saved

In Karachi, there is someone available to fix every sticky situation you can possibly get yourself into. Bought an outfit that looked amazing in the shop but like a sack of potatoes at home? Don't return it. It is now your tailor's headache. Broke the zip on your backpack? Find a bored cobbler sitting on the side of the road. Ruined your shoelaces in a muddy puddle on the way back? Take them back to the cobbler, who will have identical shoelaces lying around somewhere. The one thing you will definitely not be doing is throwing your shoes away, especially not when you nearly died at how much they cost. You may have been duped into thinking that Karachi is just another urban landfill, but that has little to do with throwing away our junk for no good reason. Nothing is going to exit your home for good until a horde of pros have had a go at fixing it.

No problem is too big

Such dreamy luxury disappears the moment you leave Pakistani shores for a so-called first-world country. Here, you wreck things at your own peril. When I first moved to the UK, the key got stuck in our front door. I called a locksmith, who fixed it with a screwdriver in about half a microsecond and charged a fortune for turning up. I learned my lesson - the only other time I have called a pro for help was when my U-bend adventure proved beyond the means of YouTube. (And yes, he cost nearly as much as a new kitchen.)

In Karachi problem-solving heroes are a dime a dozen and fix more than just potato sack dresses and shoelaces (or locks and U-bends). Knocked over the TV during a rare cleaning spree? Call the TV guy. Toaster burning your bread every morning? Call the toaster guy. Can't bear the sight of the sofas that have been in the house since 1992? Call a sofa guy and he will personally come to reupholster them all with consummate skill at a fraction of the cost of a new sofa. Whatever the situation, there is always a guy to take care of it, saving both money and the planet. He may only turn up on Wednesday afternoon despite faithfully promising to be there on Monday morning, but turn up he will. Eventually.

"My parents have had their sofas since - actually, I can't remember," says Zainab, a doctor in her forties in Karachi. Zainab has lost count of the number of houses her parents have lived in, but the one thing that has remained constant has been the set of sofas she grew up watching TV on. The sofas have suffered goodness knows how many spilt cups of tea and borne witness to an avalanche of crumbs of unknown origin, but none of that has made the tiniest dent in their longevity. "My mother just calls this guy we know to come and change the covers every few years on Eid," continues Zainab. "They end up looking like new."

Reuse, repurpose, recycle

It is not just sofas that are treated with such reverence, but also anything that has ever passed through your door - although this can head into mania territory of you aren't careful.

"My father still has a record player and a TV with knobs," says Faryal, who has been secreting away her father's things to the garbage man for years. "He can't let it go."

According to Sarah, a therapist, there is a solid reason for this love for hoarding. "It's generational trauma of not having enough and being afraid of being caught without what you need," she explains Sarah. "Letting things go to waste or replacing something without trying to fix it first is just not an option for so many people."

Perhaps because of this deep-rooted generational trauma, Pakistani women may not all be hoarding ancient TVs, but they have certainly been recycling and repurposing long before Instagram and Pinterest told us it was cool and important to do so. Who needs a mop when a ten-year-old vest can clean floors? Does anyone ever store medication (or sewing supplies) in anything other than a biscuit tin? And those powdered milk tins from the eighties that are now home to lentils - will they still be around when you have grandchildren? (Answer: they will still be around until the sun collapses into a black hole, possibly beyond.) Pinterest-pretty jars for masalas and label makers? Please. Give us an old achar bottle and a marker any day.

Earth may be dying, but those achar bottle treasurers and fix-it guys are doing what they can to keep us afloat, even if it means becoming a class-A hoarder. Sadly, however, I fear no amount of ethernet cables and YouTube videos can save our TV. It will soon be on its way to join the mountain of garbage crowding the local tip. A new model will replace it at home. Although once my dear other half learns that Apples Never Fall is not quite the juicy murder fest he had set his heart on, I'm not sure how well the new TV's inaugural session will go.