Recently, I moved house. By “recently”, I mean “four months ago”, and by “moved house”, I mean “I moved out of the granny-flat/bedroom-bathroom arrangement built for me under my mother’s house, and into the 3-bedroom double-brick house that I bought with my other half”. But I digress.
While I’d banked on a new found freedom that one only really has when they can walk around in their undies in their own pad, I didn’t realise I’d discover a whole new wardrobe.
My previous lack of storage space paired with my penchant for online shopping saw packages swiftly relegated to bottom drawers or shoved on to my portable clothing rack, buckling at the weight of pretty frocks. They would escape the wrath of my six-monthly-Salvo-donations with promise to wear them before the next clean out, after which I’d thrust them back in to the depths of Narnia. And so the cycle would continue.
It wasn’t until I opened the suitcases and boxes of my apparel on arrival (by “on arrival”, I mean “a day week later”) in my new home that I realised the treasures that had been buried away. There was the faint odour of mothballs, but they had escaped the Attack of the Wet Season Mould; nothing that a good dry-clean couldn’t fix.
I sauntered into work in one of my new-found frocks. “Oooh, new dress?!” Little Miss Moi questioned. “Well… You’d never believe it. In the move I found all these new outfits that I’d forgotten I had!” I exclaimed. LMM raised an eyebrow. “Really,” I continued, “This dress isn’t new. I swear. I found it in my spring-cleaning.”
A few days later I pulled out another dress that had long been forgotten. “Oh, that’s a lovely dress,” a lady at work remarked. “Yes. You know. Laundry-day,” I replied. As if that somehow explained my “new” outfit. Conversation is always a little awkward in the bathroom.