Picture a house so full of stuff that the front door barely opens. Not some reality-tv spectacle, but the quiet reality for thousands of older Britons whose possessions have slowly walled them off from the world. In Wirral a fortnightly gathering called Bringing Hoarders Together is trying to chip away at that wall, one cup of tea and shared confession at a time.
The group, run by Prima Group housing association, was set up four years ago by Ruth Cookson, a 53-year-old resident who knows the territory. After her own hoarding worsened during the pandemic she received patient help from a housing officer who let her clear the place at her own pace instead of sending in the skip brigade. That small act of decency seems to have stuck with her.
Participants talk of starting their collections after the suicide of a parent or the collapse of a relationship. Some have lived without heating or a working bathroom for years. The shame is crushing. So is the isolation. Hoarding, formally recognised by the NHS back in 2013 and classified by the World Health Organisation in 2018, is less about untidiness than about pain that has nowhere else to go.
Fire services have seen a 78 per cent rise in blazes linked to hoarding properties since 2020. In London alone more than 2,000 homes were flagged for serious clutter in the year to July 2026, up from 1,200 four years earlier. Damp, mould, infestations and the constant risk of falling or burning alive are not abstract statistics. They are daily facts for people who once had families, neighbours and reasons to open the curtains.
Yet the default response from too many landlords and councils has been the enforcement letter or the forced clearance. As Jenny Devon, sustainment and cohesion manager at Prima Group, reported, tenants describe wildly inconsistent approaches depending on which housing association or local authority they draw. Some get empathy. Others get an eviction notice dressed up as tough love.