I have taken up the annual task of de-cluttering my closet and consequential floordrobe. It’s a meagre task that requires a preparation of anti-histamines, fluids, rubbish bags and Spice World playing in the background. It should take me no less than a week. What once upon a time, was a perfectly organised space, dividing scarf from sock has escalated into a pit of terror and chiffon. As a result of this I have been wearing the same, five interchangeable outfits for the last two months. So, for the sake of my health, my happiness and my street cred, I am taking my life into my hands and starting with my tights drawer.
I think I have more pairs of tights than anything else in the world, including friends. Each pair more ambitious than the last, I have an array of nylons that Cyndi Lauper would be proud of. In addition to this, about five million black pairs. And not one, not one single pair without a hole in it. I’ve developed an ineffective system of trying them on, in an early morning-induced coma, realising my leg bits are exposed in someway (heaven forefend!) and replacing them in the abyss. And the cycle continues…
The primary advantage of tidying is finding cool things I forgot I owned, particularly with clothes. Being poor, does not accommodate shopping sprees and the St. Vincent de Paul don't give out Topshop vouchers. Wardrobe recirculation thus serves as the next best thing.
On this occasion I struck bric-a-brac gold! Within the hosiery pit, I found a hip flask, my First Holy Communion bag and a calculator. A 21st Century woman's Holy Trinity.
As I became distracted with my new things I found, the clean up has been postponed until spelling BOOBIES on a calculator gets boring. Which is NEVER.