The words ‘joy’ and ‘storage’ may sound uneasy bedfellows but there IS pleasure to be had in storage, I can assure you. Who doesn’t wish they had the time (or the housekeeper) to store their shoes in boxes and take photos to stick on the outside. So clever! So accessible! So slightly anal!
Oh to be able to immediately identify a pair of shoes without scrabbling around in the murky jumble of my wardrobe. Particularly when said wardrobe is SHARED with a husband with a trainer fetish.
And oh to not have to step, fall, climb over the clutter of books (I have a SERIOUS Amazon habit), the piles of magazines, children’s toys and last week’s laundry (does anyone else wash it, fold it neatly into piles only to leave it out for a week to get stomped on and dirty again?).
I crave tidiness. I think better when things are orderly and put away. I like clean lines and symmetry. I find it soothing. What I don’t find soothing is clutter. Even artful disarray requires some thought and some sort of tidy up job. And it’s pretty easy to distinguish artful disarray from, well, just a plain old mess. And my house is a MESS.
So, I’m taking affirmative action and getting storaged-up. I ruthlessly cull anything we don’t desperately need, wear, read, chew on or play with and I trawl the web for storage solutions.
After an hour it dawns on me that storage is not dull at all. It can be clever, beautiful, witty and very, very helpful. It doesn’t even need to be a big mouth; it can just sit quietly, melt into the background and get on with the job.
Clutter issues now resolved my house could give John Pawon’s a run for its money. Now there’s a man who gives good storage. Although you MUST NEVER open one of his cupboards if ever you pop round there for a cuppa. They are brimful of junk. Allegedly.
Image 1, source unknown
Image 2, via Ikea
Image 3, my study