It's evident that, as I grow older, I am taking on some of the more tedious traits of my parents. One of them is becoming tidy. Once, I was wanton with the location of clothes, shoes, CDs, bikes, whatever. Gradually, as I have aged, and my hairline has begun its retreat towards the back of my head, tidiness and order seem to grow increasing significant.
And so, having applied the gritted teeth approach of tidying everything in the house, I now turn to my wardrobe (Mrs North can do whatever TF she likes with hers - there's so much stuff in there that the doors are booby trapped to spill dresses, blouses and slingback kitten heels all over the bedroom floor). My suits, shirts, coats and, er, university gown, all hang on a variety of hangers: those the suits came with from whichever outlet, and the inherited, half broken and, of course, ubiquitous yellow Johnson's jobs that bend like riverside willows.
So, as the final bastion of chaos, do I give into the urge to buy some wooden coathangers (knowing that I am further comdemning some trees, and so skyrocketing my middle class guilt), or do I shut the wardrobe doors, cast off the chains of conformity and get a life.
Over to you, wise ones.
