When I was fifteen or so, my mother waded through the sea of clothes, books, school work and teenage flotsam and jetsam that covered my floor, and sat on the edge of my bed with tears in her eyes. I had to clean up, she said. It was really important that I get the room sorted. I made some excuse, but she cast her eyes downwards, subtly wiping a tear from the corner.

“I had a friend who never cleaned up. Every time you went into her house, the house was a complete bomb site. She had junk all over every surface. And she ended up in Ward 12B.”

Ward 12B, for those who never had the chance to go there, was the mental health ward at the old Canberra Hospital. So apparently, Mum believed that mess drove you mad and that cleaning was protective. It’s a particularly amusing little…