I like the thought, proposed by Sloane Crosley in her hugely amusing book I Was Told There'd Be Cake, that we should all give some thought to the state of our apartments should we fail to return from today's trip out, ever.
Can they find your will? Will they find your porn stash or (insert name of other thing of which you are ashamed and which will spoil your reputation somewhat)?
Sloane had a drawer full of plastic model ponies, a gift she required of all new boyfriends to demonstrate seriousness.
Remember, the last day of your life is probably going to be a thief in the night jobbie. Still want those old pants drying by the fire?
3rd December. As good a day as any to sort one or two bits of ugliness, I reckon