(Photo: Getty Images/iStockphoto)
We now live in a society where some people pay other people to organise their mess and declutter their homes. I first heard about this a few years ago, when someone I am very close to reached an impasse with their family’s detritus, and no one seemed interested in dealing with it. With all adult children having fled the home but still using bits of it as storage, the man in question understandably despaired.
A woman – and it is usually a woman, a point to which we shall return – rocked up, and for a few hundred pounds, boxed stuff up and labelled it or disposed of it.
My friend breathed a bit easier; family members were given deadlines to come and retrieve their things, and the space in the house opened up a bit more. Interestingly, most didn’t collect their stuff, because they didn’t remember owning it in the first place.
But, quelle surprise: a few years on, some of the mess is back. Trying to stay on top of it is, sadly, a way of life. I say sadly because tidying is a tyranny of sorts. But not staying on top of it also wreaks havoc.
As an only child who grew up in an exceedingly tidy home, where even the bins in rooms other than the kitchen were only for show (no joke – some of those bins were actually cloaked in fabric matching the curtains – hello, the 80s), I never had a chance at learning to embrace the clutter.
The professional decluttering trend has continued apace in the past few years. This largely female workforce are called “organisers” and charge from £250 for six hours. Post-Marie Kondo (who revised some of her views once she had kids, admitting that she had kind of given up on tidying at home, having been violently mugged by reality), some of us still watch professional organisers tidy up others’ homes on TV.
At least with Netflix’s The Home Edit I get to gawp at Gwyneth Paltrow’s glamorous playroom and pantry, instead of looking at my horrific tights drawer, which makes me feel utterly unwell. I just cannot keep it organised, despite use of various boxes and colour coding.
But I will admit that because of my upbringing, I am still the person who will plump cushions before bed if I can still just about manage to see through sheer tiredness. Endometriosis, plus two small children, plus a breakfast show job don’t leave much leftover energy.
And it is because of this urge of mine to tidy that certain parts of my first maternity leave were hell for reasons other than childbirth injuries and child rearing. Pre-children, our house would stay as it was, bar some parties and hungover weekend mooching sessions. We were simply out a lot more.
But ever since entering the phase of my life where we are in so much more, I can’t unsee clutter in front of me. It is very hard to change this habit, despite having made the decision not to constantly tidy on my second maternity leave.
It was a political choice, I told myself, as I cared full-time for two children. Nor would I pressure myself about making food. I am lucky to live with a partner who also likes things tidy, so he would pick up the slack – we are both of the view that things work and feel better when there is some order.
But if you don’t have that understanding with someone you live with, it is very, very hard. A friend’s husband simply doesn’t see mess. He is a lovely, reasonable man who has at least listened to “feedback”, and now tries to relegate his own mess to one chair in the bedroom. But it still drives my pal mad.
I’ve tried to reassure her by pointing to the comedian Katy Brand, who once wisely wrote that she doesn’t trust anyone who doesn’t have a messy corner, chair or section of their home.
I fully agree. My drawers are certainly not places of order. But what I and others can see out on the shelves and sides? Largely tidy and clear. Oh, except for the piles of newspapers and magazines I will get around to reading. And the new books. And the children’s mementoes and pieces of “art”. OK – things have slid somewhat with children.
I seem to have found myself in the impossible situation of trying to become a fast and unsentimental binner and someone who doesn’t see mess. I am stuck in a sort of untidy purgatory.
I do find it fascinating and more than a touch concerning that it is largely women finding work as declutterers and society’s tidiers – both paid and unpaid. Influencers talking about cleaning and the best products on their social media feeds are also mainly female. Why is it still us cleaning up the world?
Even the impactful Keep Britain Tidy campaign group was founded by the Women’s Institute in 1954. I discovered this salient fact when I talked on Woman’s Hour about feeling compelled to buy a litter claw to clean up our local streets.
The head of the litter campaign got in touch to tell me it was more than just a hunch that cleaning up is still driven by women. (Yes – I want to tidy so much that I am even doing outside of my own home, cleaning the streets with my very willing six-year-old son.)
So, right now, I don’t envision myself hiring anyone to help clean up my mess. At its simplest, one can argue that life is a series of decisions, at least in the parts you control. And what to keep and where to keep it is our responsibility. I do understand how it gets too much. Really I do. But right now I need someone to tidy up my attitude towards tidying. Who does one hire for that?
This week I have been…
Reading The Eights by Joanna Miller
Early hat tip: this book is out next March and I was lucky to get an early copy as Joanna and I share a publisher.
It tells the story of the first women students to go to Oxford University in the difficult years after the First World War. This is Joanna’s debut novel and it has transported me right back to uni. No, I didn’t grace Oxford’s hallowed corridors with my hungover gait and last-minute approach to essays. Nottingham uni had that dubious honour. But these women soon become friends through the page and make me fondly and nostalgically recall that feeling of pure hope, wonder and fear as one stands on the edge of adult life simply wondering. Hoping. And wondering some more.
Listening to Things Fell Apart on BBC Sounds
The second series of Jon Ronson’s quest to find out the origin story of some of our most persistent and popular culture wars returns. It’s no less beguiling, odd and damn right addictive. But I can’t do too many in one go. I find myself wanting to digest the twists and turns and mull it for a few days or more. Episode 2 – “We’re Coming After You, Honey” is particularly eerie – especially so soon after the start of the Covid-19 pandemic that we confine to the history books at our collective peril.
Watching The Apprentice
No, not that one. This is the movie Donald Trump wanted to ban the hell out of – not the TV show he starred in and wanted to promote the hell out of. With just over two weeks until Americans go to the polls, this film tells the high octane story of Roy Cohn, the lawyer and New York fixer who acted as a mentor to a young Trump and is credited with teaching him how to attack and deny anything he doesn’t like.
The former President has lambasted the movie as false and called everyone associated with it “HUMAN SCUM”. When I interviewed Jeremy Strong who plays Cohn this week, he said he felt danger and a sense of precariousness since his comments.
The film finally found distribution and is out this weekend in the UK.
