I have a confession to make.  I have piles.  Giant piles.  Really annoying piles.  There’s one in the kitchen, one in the bedroom, and several in the office.

I spent a good part of last week organising the flat, and this task has spilled into this week.  Because I rewarded myself with an eyebrow wax (well, both eyebrows, I don’t like to be uneven) and a trip to Starbucks on Friday.

With the help of my new people, several black bags and colour-coded folders, I have tackled my bathroom, my closet, both dressers and the office.  Every time I do this, it’s like I’ve been shopping for clothes and other groovy things I forgot I had.  Groovy things like pens and bookmarks, and my old passport.  Yesterday I found a rubber chicken in the office.  Sarge says it’s actually yet another bookmark.  He also says he should sort out ‘his half’ of the rooms, because it looks like the cyclone stopped short.

Going through this process, I’ve learned a few things:

1.        Black bags are my friends.

2.       There’s a couch in the office.

3.       I don’t need new clothes.

4.       I like being organised.

5.       Sarge’s ‘epic detritus’ sounds so much more eloquent than my ‘buncha crap.’


The unearthed rubber chicken.








I’m not going to show you my new, tamer purple and blue piles.  Nobody wants to see those.

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