I confess to a bad case of neatness envy that breaks out into genuine neatness every two weeks when Tina the Portuguese Torpedo is due to clean the joint. I grew up with packrat parents who kept everything and filed it all under M for Miscellaneous. Then I joined the Canadian Forces and lived out of a locker and a barrack box for two years. Having experienced both extremes, I know what I'm doing.

My mother, the Queen of Muddle, would find our place uncomfortably tidy, however -- good thing she's no longer with us to be bothered. I keep our novels in bookcases, arranged alphabetically by author so I can find something to read in a hurry, for example when on my way to the bathroom. She stacked books on the stairs, under tables, on the floors and on most flat surfaces in the house (and it was a big house). Those on shelves tended to be arranged so the most unlikely writers were co-located on the shelf -- Christopher Isherwood next to Captain Marryat ... Her idea of a joke, entertaining until you need to find something, or walk across the room without barking a shin or falling on your kiester.