Pickled onions are not a food group

Just reflecting on the idiosyncracies of living alone (yuh, it's been a week, clearly I am in a position to commentate on all its ins and outs). Finding myself eating the cutest little one-pot meals, buying eensy weeny little jars to fit in my lillipuddlian fridge, wishing that beer came in smaller sized cans so I could open one and just have a little glass, and seriously considering the nutritional merits of having cheese and pickled onions on crackers as my standard evening meal when I can't be arsed to cook.
The inner nanna is alive and well. I have been giving serious thought to the issue of where to most logically and accessibly store safety pins - a number of random items are to follow (candles, light globes, take away menus, tourist info brochures, string). I have created a 'summer clothes & shoes' box and put it away in the high cupboard I can barely reach. I am flirting with the idea of having a 'good cutlery drawer' and have hung an apron on the back of my kitchen door (can you actually get dirty assembling pickled onions on crackers?). There are so many well designed little cupboards and drawers in this place it is just begging to have things neatly packed away. If only I had a shed I could draw around each of my tools as a talismanic gesture towards them staying in their right spots for ever.
I recognise that this may only last a few weeks, until my first deadline/ dinner party/ painting binge and then chaos will rule, clothes will swim in a sea and the good cutlery will find itself scattered to the four winds. But then I reserve the right to cluck around and do it all again.
In this way I channel and pay homage to both my matrilinial connections with chaos, springing forth life and clutter and food and music and connections and chooks and children and passions and boxes of ripe tomatoes (the flamenco, the caravan, the wearing of boots and long skirts and striding across mountains); and my inner patrilineal side part, where nothing rests on another surface without a gentle doilie to soften the crudeness of its raw backside against another, all of life planned, neatly scheduled onto the calander, polite - better in than out (far in the background is a women in faded sun dress tight lipped and handwringing, mourning dead children lost cruelly to the vageries of the natural world, concerned about neighbours, scared of the unsettling dance of the universe). Ah these my ancestors, these the twin domestic goddesses of chaos and order, dancing together to make the backdrop to our lives.