Notes From The Knickerdrawer

My Dear Princess Normal & Dear Fellows,

I am sure many wives think that their husbands are useless. That the men they married need leading, toddler-like by the hand through daily life. These women shake their heads with a mixture of affectionate condescension and loving irritation when their husband attempts to clean the bathroom but has only managed to move the streaks in the bath around, instead of eradicating them.

"Bloody typical!" they say. And reach for the sponge.

These same women are amazed and delighted when their husbands actually do something right. When we successfully clean a kitchen or push a Hoover about, it is like we have won the Husband Nobel Prize. We may even get told how amazing we are, and we may feel warm and glowy about it for an instant, before it occurs to us that we will be used as ammunition against some other poor dolt.

"Amanda's husband knows how to use the washing machine!"

Effing Amanda's husband. What a show-off.

Because I am rubbish at the "blue jobs" - those jobs unofficially designated for husbands - like building an extension or killing spiders - I have tried to make up for it by knowing how to cook, and yes, even learning how to do laundry. I have been known to vacuum and I do believe I am the only person who ever uses the iron.

Yet still I think Er Indoors believes me useless in some areas. Especially clothes. As you can see from today's blip, yesterday she rearranged my entire chest of drawers. She even balled my socks and folded my knickers. I have never seen the point of such an endeavour. What's the point of folding KNICKERS - given that they are about to have an actual BUM put it in them shortly? It seems to be conferring far too much dignity on an item of clothing whose sole purpose is to stop your bits flopping about.

And today's blip is a picture of just one drawer. As I discovered this morning, she had actually put post-its all through every drawer. My jeans have been classified by style and colour. My t-shirts arranged by size and design. And post-its label each section. I feel like I have wandered into a tiny branch of "Gap" in my bedroom.

The thing is, even back in the days when I was single, I felt perfectly capable of arranging my clothes. Admittedly, there were only two sections - "clean" - which were held in my chest of drawers and wardrobe and "unclean" - which were held in the laundry hamper. Or thereabouts. Still, it worked for me.

But Er Indoors wants me to be more organised than that. She wants me to respect clothes. To classify them and wear them properly. Godammit, I believe she wants me to be DAPPER. 

Like Bokhara. She loves how Bokhara dresses. He is very precise and neat, I must say. Always very well-presented. It looks like a lot of effort.

But I shall try. I will take heed of the notes and try to be the husband that Er Indoors wants me to be. And why? Because these notes remind me of some other post-its I came home to, one day back in 1999.

We were not living together at the time. She had spent the weekend with me, then I had gone off to work on the Monday morning, and she had got up after me. She'd got ready, gone to work herself, then headed back to her "weekday" flat with the Stornaway girls*.

Back then, I wasn't really sure how she felt about me. She was resolutely cool and didn't like to say things like that out loud. "We're just messing around," she would say. I didn't really know what that meant.

Maybe sensing this, she had found a pile of post-its and left them all over the flat. They said things like, "I like that you are so proper" and "I love that you make me feel special". 

There were dozens of them everywhere. I was finding them for weeks after, inside CD cases and hidden behind the milk in the fridge.

Perhaps yesterday's note didn't tell me why she loves me. But I know that it means she does. And that is why I shall take heed of the notes from the knickerdrawer.

S.

* Choanne and Chulie.