The time has come to pack my room ready for the monumental trip back to Spalding (all of one hours drive away from my current location).
This is the story of how I managed to destroy my wardrobe while packing to move home.
As you can see, I fail at being even remotely organised. Following a quick clean up of the useless, dust collecting rubbish I’ve come to acquire over the past few months, I made a start on inside my wardrobe. My wardrobe might as well have Narnia on the other side… hell, even two Narnias. I’ve not seen the inside of the back panel since the day I moved in.
I begin by yanking all of my clothes out one by one and sorting into bins. Bin A is for charity, Bin B is for Ebay and Bin C, an actual bin, which sounds wasteful but some of my clothes really were in awful condition (think moth holes, bleach stains and my inability to keep white garments white as opposed to various shades of grey).
I turn around for a few seconds for a much needed slug of good ol’ English tea and I hear an all mighty clatter behind me.
This is the shit I now have to deal with.
My wardrobe, for no apparent reason, decided it couldn’t take being a wardrobe anymore and instead flung itself into a full blown emulation of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. In all honesty, I’m quite afraid to go near it in case it decides being the LToP is no longer satisfactory and that being some sort of Venus Human Trap is far more desirable.
My clothes, shoes, belts and bags have now been rehomed in haphazard piles around my once quite tidy room.
Fortunately for me, I have no deposit on this place (more fool my ridiculous land lady) and so being raped of my hard earned cash because the wardrobe is quite clearly not comfortable in it’s own skin isn’t applicable. Not to mention the lock on the door that needs replacing since I lost the key, or the dye that has conveniently been burned out of my clothes and onto the over excited radiator and it’s immediate surroundings.