We all have those off-limit areas of our house. You know, the places where we don’t want any visitors to venture lest they discover the true cluttered chaos of our lives.

Those architectural black holes where stuff just seems to endlessly accumulate. An event horizon of domestic detritus. Some of it waiting to be dealt with ‘by future me‘. Documents and magazines and junk mail filed away in complex layered secretions of toppled inaccessibility.

Left over bits from Ikea assemblages. Old cables and back up furniture. A rumblage of stuff that we better not throw out just in case we might need it one day.

Those places where we hang the laundry on rainy days. Where we flip off our muddy shoes. Where spare linen goes to die. And unwanted Christmas presents hide in never-mention-me-again exile.

Then there is that spare bedroom resurrected into a five star Airbnb suite when relatives come to stay, but else times mainly holds empty microwave oven boxes and camping equipment and broken dreams and a fermenting unflushed toilet.

We all have our public facing house.
We all have our off limit secrets.