Cleared out, then put into some kind of order, the two drawers of stationery at my desk this morning. This might not sound like terribly startling news, but this was the first major clean up I've undertaken of said drawers in six years. Isn't it amazing how many dead biros a man can accumulate? And why is that I regularly lose the pen tops for black biros - but not red ones? And where do the tops go once they are out of my sight? Douglas Adams's worm holes in space inevitably suggest themselves.
The good news is that there was nothing organic to be found in there. I've moved forward from the days of my youth when the contents of my desk at the end of a school year generally deserved a health warning. They don't have those kinds of desks anymore, do they? Probably a good thing.
Why do I always feel virtuous after cleaning-up when it was me that made the mess?
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