Think Miss Piggy and sparkly sequins

Or rather, my wardrobe has renounced me; a six year-old carrier bag collection (the purpose of which I can no longer recall) has joined Forces with an army of discarded footwear (led by Colonel Reebok, a trainer whose purpose I do dimly recall but associate with such pain and self-loathing that I swiftly forget it again) and now I can't open the door without triggering an avalanche of ill-advised purchases.

Of course, it seems fair to point out that were the inside of my wardrobe a shrine to colour co-ordinated folding perfection such as to make Monica Geller weep with joy, I still wouldn't be able to open the door.

This is because a pile of boxes is sitting right in front of said wardrobe and has been since I finished using them in my media studies music video project roughly five months ago.

Since then I have placed a pile of large, vaguely arty books (I lie, they're old Jackie annuals) on top of the boxes in an effort to capture some kind of coffee-tableish vibe, and now they have become a key part of the general design motif along with a community of mugs in varying states of fullness, and the suitcase I never unpacked after Skegness 99.

Of course, most teenagers revel in their slovenliness as a classic means of riling their uptight, Dyson-owning parents.

I don't, mine is hereditary. NOT (issuing the statutory disclaimer to ensure I don't wake up tomorrow on my mattress in the street) that my mother is any kind of slattern, and nor would I wish to imply she is.

She is a saintly Cinderella with more than a passing fondness for antibacterial kitchen wipes.

But she is also a woman who lives by the motto 'dust adds character', while her husband attached our bathroom tiles with blu-tack, and thus it is hardly surprising their daughter considers a room tidy if she can find space in it somewhere to sleep.

More than learning to live with my mess, I have, over the years spent submerged in my own debris, adopted it as a kind of proud character trait.

Like my dear friend Jo, whose standard reply to any remark on her punctuality is "What, you expected ME to be on time?", I have come to think of my mess as an extension of self.

And so tidying would be a bit like cutting off a limb, with equal amounts of bloodshed.

Furthermore, I pride myself in cultivating a newmess hybrid, a revolution in mess technology sure to make me a Carol Vorderman-size fortune.

"Tidy mess" you've seen; it's what happens when Auntie Ethel pops round and there's no time to visit the dump first.

"Pretend mess" you're also acquainted with, that odd phenomenon whereby anal retentive types scatter magazines in a fan and arrange tiny ethnic boxes with no purpose whatsoever other than to make people think they're well travelled and interesting.

I have invented "pretty mess."

The theory of "pretty mess" is simple '“ just as putting cake, golden syrup, peanut butter and Haagen-Dasz in a blender can only possibly create something devastatingly brilliant, so taking something sequinned, something floral and something Miss Piggy might have worn and throwing them all on your bedroom floor can only possibly create modern art of a really fetching nature'¦or so goes the theory.

In short, anything aesthetically appealing is in, while anything growing fungi life forms is out (though I'll accept the odd piece of mossy crockery can add a homey feel if your mess is looking a tad on the prissy side '“ the choice is yours).

Thinking about it, it would be interesting to apply this theory to other areas of life '“ is failing your exams acceptable, desirable even, if you fail them all in sparkly turquoise pen?

Here's to hoping.