The Great Wardrobe Migration!

It’s that time again when I try to convince myself that I have to reorganise my wardrobe. It’s October. The nights are drawing in, the air is getting colder and leaves are clogging up drains and gutters. It’s also the month when my husband becomes twitchy.

I find packing away summer clothes a complex, emotional experience. It sounds so easy. A bit of organisation, a dash of nostalgia and some folding. Alas, it involves a lot more. The first thing I have to negotiate is the ending of another summer. I can sense when it’s coming. A strangeness settles over the garden. The flowers, once so vibrant, begin to droop, their leaves curling at the edges. Even the birds seem quieter, just flitting from tree to tree rather than belting out their usual robust melodic chorus.

I gather together my thoughts as I stare into the wardrobe. The dilemma of what I should keep or put in the charity bag threatens to overwhelm me. I rifle through my colour coded tops and feel a Deja vieu. Another summer has passed and I still haven’t worn that one, the one next to it and a few more in the blue section. In denial I move onto the oranges, greens, creams, whites and blacks. The empty bin bag lies on the floor, mocking me! Logic dictates that I should get rid of half the contents of this cupboard but each item holds a memory, a chance that it will come back into fashion, or that I might fit into it next year!

There are clothes that haven’t been worn for several summers. How can I sever ties with these reminders of happy days long past? My heart protests but my feeble hands falter. ‘Sentimental old fool’ I mutter in contempt as I move onto the array of summer sandals. Perhaps it’s guilt? Like discarding an old friend?

I glance outside at the grey mizzle and take a deep breath. I call my husband and he hears those words he has dreaded for weeks. ‘Love’, I say in dulcet tones when I want something,’Please can you go into the loft and bring down my winter clothes’?

To add insult to injury, there are not one but two wasp nests in the loft. My husband hasn’t called the pest control man as he’s done a bit of diy himself and hopes that they’ll soon be dying anyway. So, while I’m struggling heroically in the bedroom with my conscience and non existent logic gene, my husband, the brave warrior, is armed with a spray can and a torch as bright as a million candles (according to Rhod Gilbert!).

I picture him battling his way through deadly buzzing invaders to rescue my box of jumpers, a brave trooper on the front line of seasonal change. It adds an element of suspense to the process, like a domestic version of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Cardigans. Every six months the changing of the seasons brings a certain level of drama to our household. This year it feels like a blockbuster!

And so, after much dithering, sighing and deliberating, I finally admit defeat. The summer is over. Any random heatwaves won’t last. Between my inability to let go and my husband’s potential near death experience, (he swells up impressively if stung by a wasp) I’ve managed to turn a simple wardrobe exchange into a full scale domestic war.

I always hope that this bi-annual event is a smooth, organised process, but it always turns into an emotional rollercoaster! Let’s be honest, by next June I’ll have forgotten half of what I’ve packed away and reopening the boxes will feel like Christmas has come early!

And thus ends the ‘Great Wardrobe Migration’ for another six months! My husband has survived two deadly wasp nests, a true hero in my eyes. I, on the other hand, was left traumatised by my usual indecisiveness, illogical dithering and hoarding weakness. I plead guilty as charged.👠