A few weeks ago I tidied the Man Drawer. I acknowledge with thanks Michael McIntyre as the source of this great expression, capturing as it does so perfectly that dump zone in the kitchen containing a heap of used and new batteries freely mixing, split and worn rubber bands, pencils without leads, pens without ink tubes, dried tubes of glue and hundreds of fuses which magically disappear as soon as you start to look for one.
I won’t carry on; Michael McIntyre does it so much better in his sketch, but even if you haven’t seen this item of pure joyful comedy, you get the idea.
I was so pleased with my efforts, I took a photo. Maybe as a memory piece for when it all reverts to form, but mostly so I could gloat with pleasure at this little island of order in my chaotic existence.
And now, today, I am delighted to say it proved its worth. I had a delivery of bedroom furniture for Second Daughter. The delivery men offered to put furniture pads on the bottom if I had any to hand. Furniture pads? In this household? The mere concept would have been laughable but a couple of years ago. And the idea of actually finding them quite ludicrous. And yet, I was able to smile knowingly in a 1950s good-housewife sort of way, proceed straight to the man drawer, and pluck out (from amongst a variety of different diameter felt pads) all that was required.
A shame then that the state of Second Daughter’s bedroom floor didn’t really call for such care, but that’s another issue for another day.