Did you read about that woman who’s made a fortune out of several volumes on how to declutter? You’ll find her works in the same bookshop section as those tomes extolling towel folding as a constructive and mindful pastime, when it’s simply being tidy.

Well, the first thing I’d throw out from my place would be her books. Since I downsized (both my home and myself actually) anything considered extraneous has gone straight to the car boot sale. Visitors have been caught peeping into my cupboards and gasping. Shirts colour coded, socks neatly rolled in pairs, just the right amount of crockery for dinner for four. Any holiday snaps that didn’t get into the ‘chosen few’ albums? Binned! Old ballpoint pens, keys to long gone locks, Christmas wrapping paper scraps, frayed pillow cases, out of date guide books, half-used tins of paint: off to the recycling depot with you! Cracked mugs, odd saucepan lids, tangled computer cables: chucked! Last year’s diaries, old tax returns, and that cycle helmet with the dodgy strap? Banished!

Yes, I pride myself on having zero tolerance where clutter and unused domestic items are concerned. At least, I did. Until I looked long and hard into my knicker drawer. How this particular area escaped my eagle eye I know not. But there they were: pants galore. Billowing pairs now too big for me since my diet, pants purchased in hope, that I will never actually get slim enough to fit, pants with withered elastic that head south when I’m running for my bus, Christmas pants (ugh…who gave me them?), Mickey Mouse pants (not even sure they are mine!), panic-buy pants wrongly chosen when faced with a baffling array of choices in the Men’s Department, pants metric mistaken for pants imperial. Pants, pants, pants.

And right at the back of the drawer, the dreaded boxer shorts of yore. Did I really wear such abominations? And how did they survive the move?

I strive for a smooth stress-free transition of a morning from prostrate in my pit to smartly turned-out upright, awake and out the door. I’ve even been known to put the toothpaste on my brush the night before if there’s a train to catch.

Fumbling through a drawer crammed with defunct trunks in the half-light was holding me up my dears. So, out damned pants. Twenty six (figures 26) pairs in all, into the rag bag and off to the depot. That’s enough for two football teams with a couple left over for the ref. Or spread out, an area half the size of Wales.

All now replaced by just six neatly folded identical gleaming (well, perhaps not gleaming) perfectly fitting pairs of undies purchased online with a single click. Now there’s something for my visitors to peep at and admire.

Not that I have many visitors. Well, they clutter the place up something awful, don’t they?

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