Not so very long ago, I met someone who had never heard of a junk drawer.
Knock me down with a feather! My flabber was well and truly gasted, as if I had met someone who had never heard of the moon, or the law of gravity, or the Battle of Thermopylae. What kind of person was this, who had never heard of a junk drawer?
I thought of this person a couple of weeks back, when I was in search of the nail-clippers we use for the cat. I went to the junk drawer in the kitchen, because of course that's where they're kept, and after rummaging around for a bit came across an old set of nail-clippers that are difficult to use and which the cat hates. I wanted the new pair, which are slightly easier to use and which the cat hates marginally less, which is why they are vastly superior to the old ones (anyone who has ever attempted to trim a cat's claws knows that you learn to be grateful for anything that gives you the tiniest edge in this battle).
I looked again, digging a bit deeper into the drawer, then deeper still, and finally pulled the drawer out and emptied its contents onto the kitchen counter, where they made a pile about three feet long and two feet high. I surveyed the massive heap and wondered if junk drawers were magical, or — like the TARDIS in Doctor Who — much bigger on the inside. How could so much stuff have come out of such a small drawer?
Now, I don't know about your junk drawer, but I suspect that their contents don't vary too much from house to house. At a guess, sample contents of junk drawers the world over include (but are not limited to) multiple takeout menus, some from restaurants which closed more than a decade ago; a blister pack of picture hooks containing three hooks but only one nail; a small flashlight which, when turned on, shines brightly for three seconds before dying; several used tealights; two drink coasters (out of a set of six); multiple plastic packets containing crystallized soy sauce; an assortment of mismatched plastic cutlery, provenance unknown; something knitted out of chunky wool that might (?) be a pot holder; operating instructions for several kitchen appliances, most of which you no longer own; an old Swiffer duster attachment that looks like a dead bird; numerous rubber bands that crumble when you pick them up; at least one small clear light bulb, suitable for use in a Christmas ornament; assorted tags off bread bags; and a ball of string that has unwound itself into a tangled mass.
Some of these things were in my junk drawer; the new nail-clippers, alas, were not among them. I began sorting through what was no longer needed/relevant/usable and created a satisfyingly large armload of things to go in the garbage can, then put everything else back in the drawer. When I had finished, I paused to admire my work, because the junk drawer looked almost tidy.
It's not, of course, a state that will last, which is one of the quiet joys of the junk drawer. Whatever order we need to exercise in other areas of our life, whatever neatness and tidiness is expected of us, the junk drawer remains a space where chaos can safely reign. If my desk looked like my junk drawer I would be mortified, but I'm almost proud of the wide variety of flotsam and jetsam that have washed up into that narrow space in my kitchen, and found safe harbour there.
As an epilogue, I will note that I purchased a new set of nail-clippers for the cat the next day, half-expecting that the old pair would then immediately turn up, but there has been no sign of them. If you have a minute, please check your own junk drawer and see if they're in there. I wouldn't be at all surprised if they were.
