I got a phone call from my Mum the other day, to tell me she had cleaned out the second kitchen drawer and she had things to give me that she would leave on my bed. For those who are unsure, the second drawer is the one between the nice tidy first drawer and the third drawer which is reserved for cling wrap and tea-towels.
The second drawer is reserved for all those items that do not have a home, like a pound for abandoned puppies and kitties, and in truth, it has roughly the same sadness and hopelessness about it.
You see, my mother is somewhat of a hoarder. Not the obsessive, TV appearance level of hoarder; there are no piles of pizza boxes or newspapers which we have carved mazes through. But Mum has trouble throwing things out. It seems that my moving out of home is my Mum’s chance to get rid of all the sad, homeless things she no longer wants to shove in the second drawer but can’t bring herself to throw in the bin.
Other kind gifts include a silver tea set, a tragically kitsch hand-embroidered apron, a washing basket and the list grows each day. So I started my own dowry. Sure, there are no goats or camels. But I have a saucepan that will be perfect for two-minute noodles, some lovely sugar spoons, and enough utensils to establish my very own second drawer.
This is Julia, being grown up.