7.03am: I’m rummaging through a mound of clothes the size of a small child in the corner of the room while John Humphry's voice hums in the background. Periodically I pull out a pair of creased trousers before realising they’ve been worn twice this week, then a rumpled shirt that I give a quick sniff to check it’s clean. I scan the rest of floor and find a bra lurking in a smaller pile and after some time locate my brogues by the sofa.
Welcome to my morning routine.
Thank god I'm not the only woman who lives like this. 59% of you surveyed in our December issue Getting Dressed admitted they too are the proud owner of a floordrobe.
I'm sure you, just like me, would love to be one of those people with a Pinterest-friendly wardrobe that has matching scandi hangers and shoes stacked in boxes with a useful polaroid stuck on the front.
And how I long to be have a Christian Grey-esque space where crisp pressed shirts hang in pristine order, arranged by colour, style, perhaps designer, and almost certainly occasion.
Alas it is not to be.
Instead my bedroom armchair is strewn with jumpers, the end of my bed is where I 'hang' dresses, tee shirts and jeans, the space by the sofa is for shoes, and the odd sock rests whereever it falls. I am the classic owner of a ‘floordrobe’.
For many years I blamed the housing crisis. And the fact that my tiny rented room in E8, meant I could only have a miniscule wardrobe - one more fitting for a Hobit in Lord of the Rings than me - and so the overspill went to the floor. Though this argument no longer strictly stands as my boyfriend has since given up his study at the back of the house to turn in to my dressing room in the vein hope to contain my clothes. And now? I've colonised the floor too.
I have tried to change. Attempts to Be. More. Adult include buying those draw separators from Ikea. But within a few days things were placed in the wrong compartment and before long it was knicker chaos again.
I have also tried forcing myself in to 20-minute routine each night to sort out that days’ attire. But in truth nothing ruins a perfectly nice night out than ending it with folding, when I could be watching The Affair on the sofa. Or, in fact, still out having a final glass of wine.
Last year I even invested in a steamer, on offer on Amazon. I hoped that £13.99 would reform me in to that person who swooshes her bouncy Elvive advert hair in to office in a suit without a crease (or my regular coffee/egg/avocado/ stains).
Instead it became such a faff to wait for it to warm the water that I rarely use it – and so it sits in the corner of the room, a few dresses hanging from it, while I return to my trusty method of stretching my shirt over my knees and using my hairdryer on the hottest setting to blow out the worst of the crimps. Wholly ineffective but entirely low effort.
That’s just the thing, you can say what you like about the aesthetic, implied irresponsibility and perhaps even hygiene of my floordrobe but for me it just makes life easier.
And at 7.03 in the morning, I need all the help I can get.