The Shit Drawer


I’m proud of my kitchen, and I love organising it. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not tidy but I love it when it’s all tidy and I have an ingredients shelf, a tin shelf, and so on.

But shoved in one corner is my arch nemesis.  Many times I have tried to conquer it.

Many times I have failed.

This fetid pit of unconquered despair is called The Shit Drawer.

We never intended on having it; it just sort of happened.  When we moved in, we had a spare drawer and so it became the place to put takeaway menus.

We had a new oven installed; where would we put the instructions? Not important enough to go in our important paperwork box but needed to be kept.

“Stick it in that drawer” I told the hubbo.

Next it was keys.  And then hair bands.

Then it was batteries.  And then constipation relief tablets.

Notepads, cellotape.  Cat wormer, boot polish.

And one day, its identity changed forever.

“Where shall I put the nappy bags?” said hubby.

“I guess they had better go in The Shit Drawer” I said.

And its been known by that name ever since.  It’s the go-to place if you can’t find anything.

Lost a key?  Or an earring?  Severed limb?

Always in The Shit Drawer.

I’ve tried to organise it, I really have.

I can only liken it to a room of one hundred unruly toddlers and trying to organise them.

It’s chaos.

We are not alone I know; I have seen Shit Cupboards, Shit Sheds and even Shit Rooms.

There is no greater feeling than having somewhere to store all the shit that has no place.  Once the door/drawer is shut, your mind is clear.

Until you then need to find something.  That’s stress on a whole new level…



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