If they're on sale, buy lots!

So, after the ten-pages-gone-mysteriously-missing fiasco of last week, I felt compelled to restore some semblance of order to my postage stamp-size apartment so that future attempts at locating vitally-important objects are not quite so distressing. Don't get me wrong. It's a lovely, little apartment with a lovely, little sunroom to write in and a lovely, little kitchen, perfect for preparing lovely, little meals. It's just so small that if I don't keep on top of the editing, things can get out of hand very quickly. You would think that the smaller the flat, the lower the chance of losing things because there are only so many places they could be. But let me assure you, it is staggering how much extraneous crap you can cram into a scarcely four hundred square foot space.

Let me emphasize that I am not the kind of slob who doesn't clean for twenty-eight years until Kim and Aggie turn up, rubber-gloved and ready for action, at the door. The regular cleaning gets done, well...regularly. No obvious buildup of thick, brown grot on the stovetop, few, if any, spiders lurking in the corners, no long-dead vermin or wayward hairs in the fridge, no pet by-products ground into the carpet and left to petrify. I would not be mortified if company were to show up unannounced. I am not sure, however, whether I'd be comfortable with them rifling through my linen cupboard.

I started with the front hall closet. How hard could it be? Take out the coats, footwear and vacuum cleaner, sweep, mop, put everything back. Piss case. Except that I completely forgot that over the past three years I've used the shelves at the top as a catch-all. I found two cans of spray paint that I have never used; can't remember what I bought them for but, clearly, there was a project in the offing at one point. I also came across a bottle of carpentry glue that I used to fix my coffee table. And ruin my couch. (If anyone knows the secret to getting an obscene quantity of wood glue out of upholstery, please post.) There were also many small, tool-type items including my handy-dandy electric screwdriver - the single woman's best friend. Alright, maybe not best friend but certainly in the top five.

I vaguely recall tissues being on sale for the crazy low price of fifty-nine cents a box. I vaguely recall a limit of four boxes per customer. I have no recollection whatsoever of making three trips to the shop to snap them up. If you consider the fact that I keep a box of tissues beside my bed, one in my sunroom, one on the back of the toilet, one on the bookcase next to the couch and one on top of the fridge, you will realise that there are seventeen boxes of tissues in my scarcely four hundred square foot space. Seventeen! Does that seem excessive to anyone else or is it just me? What in the holy and sanctified name of God am I going to do with seventeen boxes of tissues? Two of the opened boxes are printed with bells and snowflakes, which would obviously suggest that I have not managed to get through them since last Christmas. It's nearly October. It will take me roughly four years to use them up. Kids who started ninth grade two weeks ago will graduate high school before I need to buy tissues again. They will have cast, shot and premiered Pirates of the Caribbean VII before I need to buy tissues again. Britney Spears will have been married and divorced two more times before I need to buy tissues again. Interesting, I think, that I just put the last roll of bog paper on the spindle this morning. I can cruise right through seventeen rolls of that stuff in about eight weeks. Must buy some more, though I suppose I could just use tissues, if need be.

My front hall closet is now spotless. The tissue boxes are piled neatly at the back of the top shelf, like a floral cardboard brick wall. The things I use more frequently are stacked in front of them. I've made space so that accessing the coats, footwear and vacuum cleaner is much easier. In a few weeks, when I've recovered from the trauma, I will tackle the linen cupboard where, incidentally, the linens have not been kept for the better part of a year because there is no room for them.