And This Is Why I Have No Time To Write

Or do anything really, except sort through papers and transfer lists to new pieces of paper.

Organised Chaos

At lunch today with my mum, we were dicussing the difference between being tidy and being chaotic. Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about the fact that there is no surface in my flat that can be seen by the naked eye, or with glasses for that matter. Most of the debris is paper, but there are also a lot of Things, like books, soft furnishings, photos and all sorts of things that probably should have a home of their own but don’t. I have lived like this my whole life, having been brought up in a household where tidiness was pretty much a dirty word. My mum is gloriously chaotic, and can never find anything. My father is pretty tidy in comparison, and Mum’s disorganisation drives him nuts; I seem to have landed somewhere in between. My flat’s a tip but at least I know where everything is. More or less.

There is something about mess that I find extremely comforting. I always apologise for it when people come round, but secretly I’m not sorry at all because nothing makes me feel more uneasy than minimalist order. I’ve been to houses where no surface is sullied by any object, the walls are largely bare, the kitchen worktops are not cluttered with electrical appliances, and the atmosphere is cold, hollow and not at all comfortable.

Of course there’s a difference between messy and dirty, and I’m sorry to say my home occasionally tips over into the latter (hey, I’m a creative person, my mind’s on Higher Things), but on the whole, how much cosier it is to have some STUFF lying around the place, than a show home that looks as if no one even lives there.