Well, the car is 12 years old, and we won't buy a new one until it blows up (plus the MiL is always trying to give us another car but we only need the one). Ironically, it's seeing more use now than ever, owing to coronavirus. It stumbled over its 12,000-mile hurdle at the weekend. It has Christmas tree needles in the footwell going back to 2006. The VW Golf that predated that ran to 18 years and was still going, but overheated if it sat at the lights for too long, so we'd often be found trundling through west London, heads out like dogs, the heater turned up full.
Our garage is full of bits of pipe and various offcuts, I presume some are from when we got this place refurbished, but some probably date back to the last owner. There's also a pile of Ikea furniture that we meant to get rid of but haven't gotten around to it (yeah, after moving it at great expense, we decided it 'didn't go' with the new decor – to be honest, for once she was right – and had to go reacquire). Our kitchen guy turned the worktop offcuts into chopping boards.
I can't do anything useful with stuff, I don't have those skills, I top out with changing a fuse. I had to pay a man to change the lightbulbs in the bathroom.* I do have draws of electronic exotica. One exciting day, I'll save the world with a Palm Pilot.
*to be fair, that's because the fittings turned out to be glued in, so the entire bloody ceiling had to be repainted.