Be free of your wardrobes!

In a bid to create more space in our bedroom for Nigel’s ever-increasing pieces of kit, we have ripped out the fitted wardrobes and reclaimed not only lots more space, but also the fabulous parquet floor that lay buried beneath the carpet.   Both space and floor now provide Nige with the perfect arena for practising his wheelies!

Being a bloke, Nigel’s gear was instantly dismissed as a non-issue, but obviously I was faced with the dilemma of how to decant all my paraphernalia into one measly wardrobe and two wholly inadequate shelves located in the spare room.  Impossible?  Ludicrous?  Beggars belief?

Not a bit of it!

I have been ruthless in the extreme.  I feel liberated, empowered, triumphant...even a teeny bit smug!

No longer am I held hostage by armies of clothes stationed in my wardrobe for no other purpose than to mock me.   No longer do I harbour those garments labelled:  ‘for when I lose a bit of weight...’  Equally, there is no refuge for those filed in the ‘in case I put weight on’ section.   Furthermore, all those items that have been waiting for me to suddenly look ten years younger so that they may once again adorn my person, have been well and truly axed.

I have banished without mercy those items of clothing spared in previous evictions simply because they were ‘nice’; ‘smart’; ‘expensive’; ‘worn only once in the last five years’; ‘never worn at all in the last ten...’.

I have finally got rid of all the fashion victim stuff I never liked anyway but didn’t want to admit to the stupidity of buying in the first place.  Out has gone the stuff that I even quite like but has nothing to partner it.  And no longer do I have shoes that hurt!

Not surprisingly my remaining attire fits easily into one robe and two shelves.  These clothes hang proudly like the chosen few - the elite, the special, the survivors!    I have regained power over my wardrobe and rid myself of the agony of gazing upon clothes I adore but look bloody awful in.   Now when I open my wardrobe door my clothes greet me like old, dependable, but perhaps uninspiring friends.  We’re at ease with each other.  I am not challenged to prise my person into anything inappropriate.  I know I won’t spend the day in pain; be forced to adopt a peculiar posture, or be obliged to hold my breath for hours on end.  

There is a compromise to be made of course.  As a result of my purge I don’t expect to waltz down the catwalk like a red-hot diva but I can at least expect some degree of comfort, I can expect to look reasonably ‘OK’, and unfortunately, a little bit dull !

Now, what on earth am I going to wear....?