The Move

The first night she comes to stay she brings a handbag. A small handbag. Barely bigger than a purse. And yet somehow, the next morning, she has enough for a full costume change plus makeup.

The second visit warrants an overnight bag. This time she knows she’s coming. Not a rucksack, let’s not go too far here. Just something that’s an armful, filled with small lacey things that to the uninitiated are indecipherable, perfumes and squirty things, lotions, creams, cotton pads, puffs and balls all layered upon each other. Whatever is necessary to be seen in daylight.

Next she arrives with luggage. Your heart sinks. In come the dresses, skirts, trousers and tops. Out goes your wardrobe space. Fold your jumpers, she says. Why are your t-shirts on hangers? She asks. You do as you’re told, rolling your socks, containing and compacting your meagre belongings.

And still she continues to buy. Shoes, shoes, a world full of shoes. Cupboards spill and overfill with them. You lose track of dresses. That’s my favourite dress, you say. It’s new, she huffs. Suddenly you find a whole drawer dedicated to towels. Another dedicated to linen. Your sock drawer merges with the pants. Wash cycles become twice weekly.

Before long you are reduced to a rack. Room for two shirts and a suit. The rest of your clothes dumped in the corner. You wear the same thing on a three day rotation. After all, who are you trying to impress?