I guess it is the
experience of most married men to be aware of the mystery which is
their everloving's knicker drawer. You never went there, and she
damned well didn't want you to. At best you caught a glimpse.
Terrifying. And, again most of you married men reading this
will recall the occasion when
your wife decided to have a clear-out of her knicker drawer. Again,
mysterious, terrifying. You, of course, were banished from the
bedroom for the duration. Clearly the drawer contained a much greater
variety of bits and bobs than its name suggests, but that is enough
about that. Job done, leaving a tidy drawer (one assumes) and a smug
expression on the lady's face.
will recall the occasion when
your wife decided to have a clear-out of her knicker drawer. Again,
mysterious, terrifying. You, of course, were banished from the
bedroom for the duration. Clearly the drawer contained a much greater
variety of bits and bobs than its name suggests, but that is enough
about that. Job done, leaving a tidy drawer (one assumes) and a smug
expression on the lady's face.
The reason I mention
all this is that I have just had a blitz on the male equivalent: my
sock drawer. Goodness, what an accumulation of tat! How can I have
been such a slut over the years? Socks of every shade and shape,
hole-ridden, crusty and pilled; horrible from every standpoint. The
only consolation is that I found a couple of things that I had been
looking for in vain over the years, including my father's ARP whistle
(don't ask). Anyway, the drawer is now cleared of two-thirds of its
contents, and what remains is very tidy and totally identifiable. The
whole exercise gave me a fresh respect for my late wife, God bless
her.
PS I don't apologise
for the misleading title I gave to this piece: it was the only way I
could be sure of attracting your attention.
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