I chucked it all into the bin; then shovelled in the rest of the fallen spines with the dustpan. How long had she spent growing this, for the faintest glimpse of survival, a new life, a single unnecessary meal? Now she was gone, and so were all the ideas she had with it.

It was always impossible to keep up with her latest theories on life, whether suddenly in favour of the irate musings of an online polemicist or adamantly not advocating for a particular health fad. She swerved in and out of mainstream and onto the left field as if to keep herself guessing what belief she would take up next.

Not long ago, she had been a hoarder, until she watched a show on people addicted to hoarding and decided it was too common to have such a habit, though she would never use that word. The pleasure in socially rejecting another was not worth the risk of being rejected herself.

The minimalist craze had already come and gone (our attention spans heeding its advice), but she was busy making its comeback. Nothing was done in halves, and on exiting her maniacal collecting era, so little remained that I wondered whether I had the problem with materialism. Any household object whose use could now be performed on a phone was declared homeless by decree of superfluousness. We weren't even allowed a clock. Looking back, I couldn't believe I let her not allow us a clock. It was a nice clock.

Is this totally necessary?

Monks do it.

But maybe a little too much?

In my head, I conceded we all do it – the not-having-so-many-things thing – at least part-time when we go on holiday, especially when camping, or even when we leave the house. Yet monks have a backup when they evacuate the material world, and that's meditation, or some selection of gods. As do we, when we return home.

Yet she spent so much of her life building up a stack of allegedly improving items that to boldly go without them was one step too far. She transported herself into a new world without walking out the front gate without realising it. In the process, she lost a lot of herself; memories she didn't know that only objects could now retrieve.

No matter. Out of sight, out of mind. Besides, within a week, a new set of pseudo-possessions arrived in the form of two-and-a-half dozen seed packets. Grappling with the unwieldy bundle of cardboard boxes that had escorted the tiny seeds to our address, I levered open the bin.

A tick-tick-tick tutted its way out of the green plastic cavern, buried deep under several years of school notebooks whose knowledge had never entirely made it off paper. Stickmen, once forged in idle rebellion, dissolved in untold jar juices. As I formed the next layer, I sighed. What would the next bin load hold?

We need to prepare for the environmental apocalypse.

I'll start preparations immediately. What first?

She'd been reading the first chapter of a giant book she wouldn't finish, primarily based on a 'rave' five-star review that she did finish. Though the dense academic book suggested nothing of the sort, she clarified:

We should grow our own food.

I somewhat agreed, though with the result rather than the rationale. It could be tasty and something to do that wouldn't cost an arm and a leg, as long as she didn't mean animals. Maybe it might even make her happier.

The seeds went in, and the sprouts came out. I mostly helped the latter out of sheer conscience, though I could not fault her for the out-and-out effort of the former. She needed to grow, but was less keen on growing.

Yet, for what she lacked in nurture, she made up for in enthusiasm. Within a week, our micro-acre of a garden became the foster parent of scavenged bamboo sticks, chucked fruit trays, cracked bird feeders, and any street find that might have once been intentionally owned. Soon, we found ourselves with an empty house and an ornamental garden maze of trash.

Unfortunately, the solution to the environmental crisis has never been limitless growth. Frugality both motivated and excused her excessive consumption. It wasn't real property if it was free. However, anything that did have a cost, regardless of its life-bearing properties, became taboo.

She began peeing in the garden to save water. The first time it happened, we shared a rare moment of mutual feeling. Once the embarrassment was over, she had crossed the Rubicon, and the fence corner became her pride of place.

She started to lose weight, money, and friends. Food was the problem, work was the problem, and friends had bad lives, so they were the problem. The emptiness of our house became her life, distracted by the fullness of our garden.

The clutter was partially cleared when she made space for herself to sleep. We weren't born for the indoors. The luxury of summer finally arrived, and the process of sleeping became less brutal. As her comfort grew, however, her plants shrivelled. I tried to water them, but she refused my interventions because they were not natural.

We saw each other less and less. One occasion, I caught her gazing hungrily at stalks whose far-off fruit was becoming ever less likely.

I'll eat when it's time to eat.

Who was I to stop her? I'd tried before and knew not to interfere. She would get through this herself. But would we? Her sallow cheeks eventually forgot how to speak, and our communication cut off entirely.

One day, I broke. I resolved to tell her that enough was enough. She wasn't going to save the world, and it was her own problems she needed to face. Stepping out, I kicked away a Russian doll set of unused pots, and they scattered off in different directions. I looked around to find her amongst all this nonsense, but I already knew she had disappeared.

There I stood, alone and sweltering.

I took it all in, as if for the first time. My plants needed water, so I watered them. I pulled up a weed, and its roots slipped straight through the ground. Pinching off some thyme, I went back inside. Behind me, there was yet another mess to clear.

Never mind. It was time to eat. I was starving, and I'd just bought a new cookbook.