I’m a minimalist, which means I don’t do clutter: the only place any kind of mess is allowed is No 1 Son’s bedroom (because there’s only so many times I can go in there and try to tidy it). Everywhere else in the house is pretty much free of any kind of unnecessary things, we only have the furniture we actually need, and all the drawers, wardrobes and cupboards in the house are fairly tidy and organised.*
This is one of the built-in wardrobes in my bedroom; as you can see, I can’t really shut it, which is why I’ve had to tie the handles with ribbon. Don’t be fooled by it’s innocent appearance. Inside it’s groaning with clothes, boxes of goodness’ knows what, and all kinds of junk. When we moved to this house I put everything in there that didn’t seem to have a place, and now… well, frankly, I’m afraid to open it, because everything inside bursts free in a big scary mass and it takes me days to close it again. And yet still I haven’t got round to sorting it. We’ve been here nearly eight years.
I should, really, try to go through it. Maybe there’s a valuable antique in there I didn’t know I had, or money, or important documents we really really need. Maybe there’s a lion, a witch, a frozen forest and some Turkish Delight at the back of it.
Or maybe it’s just tut.
For now, until we move house later this year, it’s going to remain a secret closet. Don’t tell anyone, will you?
This is my entry for The Gallery and the theme this week is ‘
guilty secrets.‘ Actually it’s ‘guilty pleasures.’ I am seriously jet lagged.
(*I didn’t say clean, necessarily. I’m not actually Monica Geller).