One star-crossed night some years back, a dashing young man found an excuse to visit my home. As I am the messiest person I know, impromptu visitors are almost always unwelcome. Generally, I manage my dirty little secret by attempting to confine my chaos to one area: my bedroom. Being single for much of my life helped. (Or did the state of my bedroom help keep me single?)
Just back from a festival, said interloper popped past to borrow some such thing. By the time I realised my good fortune, it was too late to “pretend tidy” by stuffing the wardrobes with the contents of my floor. I refused us entry to my room so many times, he became suspicious I was hiding a body in there.
