KEY POINTS:
It started reasonably enough, with the alphabetising of the spice drawers, something I understand most people do in their kitchens.
It finished with the tragic sight of a middle-aged woman in her lounge winding old rags around wire coat hangers in what she thought was a uniquely creative thing to do on her 46th birthday.
She especially liked the little green bows she tied to add that special home-cottage flair. She was deluded. Her husband took her out to dinner and hoped that when he got home the pathetic rag coat hangers would be gone and that, like any bad dream, it simply never happened.
I find it hard to explain what happened to me during the past few weeks of de-clutter. All I know is I got a book out of the library entitled Eliminate Chaos and my life suddenly found new meaning. In the chapter headed Psychological Reasons for Clutter I found out my mess was a response to depression and I was in denial about how much stuff I actually needed.
I was also grieving my former lives and therefore hanging on to unnecessary souvenirs. But my favourite reason for my messed-up existence was that I had a cluttered upbringing. Always good to join the 21st century's favourite justification and blame the parents. No one taught me how to live any other way.
I informed my mother, who was unimpressed and embarked on a detailed psychological assessment of my character which included words such as "creative" and "carefree", before moving on to the triumphant "Look how you turned out", which is directly attributed to my creative and carefree upbringing, and finishing with a damning appraisal of all things anally retentive, the disturbing trend towards minimalism and the long-term effects this will have on the imagination of future generations.
I returned to my book, which told me firmly to choose not to live in this type of environment any more. And like a drunkard on a week-long bender, I was lost in my own de-clutter binge.
My husband was called from his desk, where he is engaged in an intensive project that shouts "Do Not Disturb" by its mere existence, to examine the plethora of spices and herbs that begin with the letter C. Caraway, cumin, cardamom, coriander, cinnamon, curry powder, chai spice, cloves, chilli would be needing their own drawer in my A to Z of spices. He looked at the C spices, he looked at me and, without uttering a word, returned to his work.
Then I returned home with Lazy Susans for the condiments. Who knew you could whiz this unique invention around to find the sauce or oil of your liking and save valuable space? And as for the three-tiered can riser that lets you see all the tins you have on your shelves, well that's just de-clutter heroin. But my triumph was the re-organisation of the pot cupboard, cleverly assigning the pot lids to their own basket.
Signs that my family might be forced to do an intervention emerged the day I packed up the computer which was cluttering the lounge and gave it to a kura kaupapa in Mangere. Then there was the day I paid my daughter and niece $15 each to cut up old sheets and towels (former life souvenirs) for kitchen cloths and announced that we would no longer use paper kitchen towels "just like they used to in the old days!"
And then came the coat hangers, which I blame on another book that gave me the idea of spending "many a happy hour binding them with the white waste of fabrics, transforming harsh wire into a chic display at no cost". Except mine looked anything but chic. They looked like wire coat hangers with bits of old tea towels hanging off them.
I showed them to my family. An uncomfortable silence followed. "The pot cupboard looks great!" volunteered a daughter sensing the need to change the subject. "Pot lid basket," mumbled my mother. "Whoever heard of such a thing?"
