Piling and re-piling: the secret of my success

When I was 18 and working as a barmaid in Newcastle, I once went to a party in a squat.

It had all the ideal features of a party: it started at 3am, it was full of 'cool' people, it felt vaguely dangerous, and my parents would have been horrified if they'd known I was there.

The squat was not a pleasant place. There was no furniture, only dirty bedding in the corners of the rooms. There was no electricity. Every aspect of it was manky. It wasn't a place where you wanted to touch anything or anybody.

I was reminded of that squat when I got home from work tonight and walked into my bedroom. In fact, the current state of my bedroom makes that squat look like the white, flower-filled waiting room that Mother Theresa probably sat in before they opened the gates of heaven.

I don't know why I'm such a slob. Considering I had daily "Tidy your room!" bollockings throughout my childhood and adolescence, you'd think I'd have OCD by now. In fact, I think my parents owed me that, and have let me down. Forget unconditional love and a private education - an obsessive compulsive disorder is the practical gift that just keeps giving.

But no. Their continued, shouty efforts to make me into a tidy human being failed to have any impact whatsoever. I never have any urge to put things away as soon as I receive them/take them off/get them back from the laundry. Instead, I have a highly developed filing system based around a structure you'll be familiar with: the pile. By organising letters, receipts, magazines, postcards, tickets and books into piles all over my bedroom floor, I can store them vertically instead of horizontally. This creates the psychological illusion of tidiness. It's only when the system begins to overflow, piles merging with each other, clean clothes scrumpled under dirty clothes, and I find that I'm using widely spaced stepping stones of carpet to reach my bedroom door, that something needs to be done. This something usually involves a quick sift through about 30% of the stuff, a chucking away of 80% of that, and a re-piling. Then I'm good to go for another five to six weeks.

The weird thing is, outside my flat I'm not a disorganised person. In fact, especially in my professional life, I'd say I'm a highly organised and efficient person (any friend or family member who wants to leave a sarky comment about this, on yer bike). There are never bills hidden in the piles - I pay all my bills as soon as they come in. My life is planned weeks in advance. I always have clean clothes and a fully charged phone and enough money in my bank account and all that everyday jazz. Those who haven't been to my flat probably think I'm quite a 'together' sort of person, not someone who they would imagine living in squalor. And yet, behind closed doors, I'm the kind of girl who has six dusty old glasses of water - or worse, cups of tea - positioned in random spots around her bedroom.

My room is like the portrait of Dorian Gray. The more shambolic it gets, the greater my power. Or something.