It had to be done; it was a job a long time in the making and an age in the waiting. At length, when there was no more room for clothing in either the wardrobe, pigeon-hole compartments, or the chest of drawers (two drawers of which needed to be glued back together again), and the fresh piles of clean washing and ironing had to sit patiently on top of the chest, I knew the time had come. No more procrastination, excuses, prevarication or hopes for the visitation of a benevolent angel or good fairy; and no more interim, half-hearted, ten-minute efforts in order to close one dodgy, over-filled drawer.

Last Saturday was slave day (as we used to call it when I was a child in Australia). Chuck-out operations began with the upending of the bottom three drawers (three “cheers” or “Bottoms up!”) and categorising each newly freed item, some of which had become institutionalised and unfit for modern society after their long incarceration; at the ready were various receptacles – the rubbish sack, the charity shop bag, the bag for never worn garments bearing labels (purchased with over-optimism during the sales – you know, “One day I’ll get into that!”), the bag to pass around the family and, not forgetting, the drawer itself. A few items did the rounds from one bag to another and ended up back in the drawers they had come from but, for the most part, the decision-making became less arduous after exercising my new mantra, “If you haven’t worn it for two years… you won’t wear it again” (my old mantra – “if you haven’t worn it for one year…” – had to be amended due to the amount of garments finding their way back from sacks to drawers!).

To save me from bending, the contents of the two upper drawers were piled, one drawer’s worth at a time, on top of the chest of drawers. First came the night-wear and socks from the second drawer. Three sexy, baby-doll outfits went back in (well, they are so flimsy); now they never seem to wear out – probably because they don’t stay on long enough (when they are worn at all) and you’d never choose to sleep in them; but they were pleased to see the light of day. On the basis of aesthetics, the grey and white polka dot fluffy pyjama pants had to go, as did the the psychedelic nightie that once used to be a short summer dress; and two faded and jaded pyjama bottoms with almost matching camisoles. Thirty-two pairs of socks, several in varying degrees of decrepitude, vied for the bin bag; the six without partners went in immediately and twenty pairs had a stay of execution on account of their suitability for use with different shoes.

The underwear drawer proved to be the most challenging. How many bras does a woman need? Of course, the real question is –  how many bras actually fit? On the basis that most of the bras might have their day one day, only two of the assembled fourteen were thrown into the rubbish sack, and another two, still with labels, went into the charity bag. Of the numerous pairs of panties (many retained purely for their prettiness), six cotton ones went into a new receptacle – the paint-rag bag.

It took nearly all day to go through everything. Now every part of furniture that was intended to slide slides and all doors open and shut without force. The clothing in the wardrobe is colour-coded and easily accessible; shoes, in neat matching pairs, adorn the immaculately clean lower shelf and the dust and dead spiders have disappeared from the dark recesses under the shelf. Now is the time for someone to ask, “May I look in your wardrobe?” (not that anyone has ever asked such a thing, though I lived in dread).

Another little unexpected bonus from my labours was the unearthing of lost treasures. Amongst the found items were two pairs of castanets (for romantic Spanish evenings), two gold rings (“four calling birds…”) and a silver turtle ring with a nodding head (you have to see it to love it!), four gold pendants, one authentic boomerang (small-sized for English folk), four purses (one filled with Australian dollars, another with Euros – no notes, unfortunately), two promises from Chris, signed and dated 4.10.06, two pairs of brass finger cymbals (for belly dancing), a thirty-foot blue ribbon on a stick for Olympic ribbon dancing (soon to be available on E-bay), one authentic small-sized didgeridoo (nicely painted for tourists), two packs of safety pins, three reels of cotton, five oestrogen patches, allergy tablets and a plaster cast of my bottom set of teeth complete with original plastic mouth-guard (for a moment I thought I had found part of a skull!). Well, they are my idea of lost treasures, if not yours.