Clothes in my wardrobe.
I mean, there are clothes in there, but I think I hate them all, except maybe on or two dresses that are not exactly suitable to faffing about and cleaning out the cat litter.
I really feel like getting a couple of bin bags and tossing the whole lot into them- bar some jeans, those dresses, my footwear and my sports gear-and dragging the whole useless pile to a charity shop and starting again from scratch.
I'm sick looking at them, but of course the moment I toss one thing away I'll want it, IMMEDIATELY.
Maybe I can get away with just jeans and a white t-shirt all year round. I can pretend I"m a Ralph Lauren ad and when people ask in January, 'aren't you cold?' I can toss my head back, shiver and laugh and pretend I'm a marina somewhere about to go sailing for the afternoon with a picnic hamper full of berries and smoked salmon. I might knot a pastel jumper around my shulders for really cold days.
No wonder Hugh Hefner just wear pyjamas day in day out.
Labels: Why do I own one of those?