The infamous man drawer, that drawer in the kitchen which men claim for themselves as the place to store spent batteries and old light bulbs, is not the sole preserve of men. Michael McIntyre is not the only one who can order a Chinese takeaway on a Nokia 3210 and pay for it in currency that is no longer in circulation. If ever there is an exhibition I want to see, that’s free to Blue Peter badge holders, I know I have one. It is simply a matter of finding it.
I am a firm believer in the woman drawer. In mine, are a number of antique spot concealers, various plastic keys for opening gas meter cupboards I cannot see, and no longer need to, because I have a SMART meter. There are also a selection of money off vouchers, that I also cannot read, but imagine have long expired.
The challenge with the woman drawer is that it is the repository for a number of tiny items that might otherwise become lost. After more than fifteen years of wondering what two small black stick looking things in a plastic bag were, I threw them away. As I heard the bin men set about their work, what they were crystalized in my mind.
Being organised is an essential part of household management if you can’t see much. I depend on a wonderful cleaner, who ensures that I don’t live in a slum. In the early days she would re-tune the radio to Christian radio and I’d have to wait for someone, anyone, to re-establish radio four as the dominant voice on news and views.
Opportunities for reminding the lovely cleaner, that things must be returned to the place, where she found them, have diminished since she discovered the antidote to the ban on Christian radio. She is now plugged into the radio app on her phone and listens to uplifting talks about faith and practice while she cleans.
The order on my dressing table is delicately balanced. One slight of hand and I’m stuffed. Gloss and Shine cannot be substituted with body lotion. Buzuka Verruca would do nothing for the bags under my eyes. Pumping Jelly Hair Gel cannot pass for After Sun.
It does not matter how many times I make the plea to those involved in slum prevention, or to those I have lived with, or those just passing through. Everything has its place. If you leave your coffee cup on the floor I will tread on it and grind the contents into the carpet. This is one of the many reasons I keep the carpet cleaners number in the woman drawer. I just need to find it.
When the Uncles come to stay they always reorder my fridge because they say my fridge scheme is illogical. Then they encase everything in carrier bags, making the fridge incomprehensible. The bathroom becomes another country. No one wants to find themselves brushing their teeth with shampoo.
The last preserve of chaos in my house, is the Woman drawer. A late night hunt for things to eat, led me, in desperation, to rummage through the piles of useful cards, old makeup and mysterious plastic bags, to a eureka moment. Joy was short lived. The last time I tasted anything like this, the Brother and I were pretending to be dogs in the boot of the family Hilman Hunter. I found the dog treats. I do not know what the Son’s Jack Russell is making all the fuss about.
Perhaps I will put my Nokia 3210 on e-bay and see if there are any takers. I just need to remember where I have put the charger cable. It’s not in the drawer where I left it.