"The first question I ask a client," says professional organiser Karen Storey as we gaze, I despairingly, she with studied neutrality, at my home office, "is, what do you want to get out of this?"

I'd settle for a clear path from door to desk, a clear floor and a filing system that… well, filed things. I'd like not to be physically and psychologically oppressed by the evidence of my multiple failings as a worker (how can I produce decent copy in the midst of such horror?), a mother (what are all these toys doing here?), a wife (the mess reminds me of all the domestic tasks left undone downstairs, too).

Some of the more resolvable elements of this morass of thoughts I convey to Karen. She decides that we will start by clearing the floor. We put things in colour-coded bin bags, for recycling, charity shops and relocation elsewhere in the house. I turn up six Oyster cards, an invitation to my cousin's wedding (he's getting married?) and a letter from my health authority about taking my son for his two-year check. I should do something about that; he's nearly three.

As we sift and bag, Karen explains her philosophy. "Most people's biggest fear is that I'm going to make them live in a minimalist paradise," she says, handing me a box of important-looking receipts that she has suggested might be more useful near my desk than under three piles of books behind a row of (unmarked) box files. "But it's not about that – it's about making a room work in the way you need it to work. For instance," she says, looking at the plethora of skincare and beauty products, "if you do your makeup in here, you should dedicate a space to it. Maybe even get a mirror? There's no reason a room can't multitask, if that's good for you."

We have one difficult moment when Karen suggests I get rid of some books. I persuade her that what I have is essentially a reference library, and she refocuses her ambition. It is now to make all my books accessible. This will be achieved by sorting out the multitudinous crap I have allowed to accumulate in front of them.

Karen dispenses nuggets of practical advice as we go. My wastebasket should be near my desk. I should lose the bits of Blu-Tack I've used to turn the sloping ceiling into an impromptu notice board and affix a thin magnetic board there instead. "You can even get magnetic paint now, you know," she says, but obviously this cannot be true. Most usefully of all, she points out that one of the two tables that make up my desk could be replaced by a unit with the same surface area but also storage underneath. "You say you work only at the other one," she says, "so the space under here is just dead otherwise." It's such a simple idea I cannot believe I haven't thought of it.

But that is the value of a fresh pair of eyes. Rooms get pieced together bit by bit. Infelicitous arrangements arise, bodge jobs remain despite the best intentions. Add to that what my husband calls my "natural tendency to shit things up as soon as look at them" and you have a recipe for chaos.
Out of this chaos is gradually coming order. Categories are emerging – makeup, books, work papers, old notes, financial documents, presents for coming birthdays and Christmases. We both beam proudly. Makeup goes in the best-lit corner. Like-minded books get shelved together. The desk lamp on the floor is put on my newly cleared desk. A box file is labelled "Financial Documents", and I empty a drawer full of detritus and rename it "Presents, and Correct" – a title that needs work, but I can do that later.

Suddenly, I can see the floor, I can reach my books, I can feel the sun on my back and a song in my heart. "A lot of people say they feel lighter once it's done," Karen says. "Like a real burden has been removed." It's true. Not only can I get to everything again, but I feel I can hold my head up and take my place in legitimate society once more.

I thank her profusely and say goodbye. I walk – not pick my way, walk – back to my desk and sigh with relief. And then I get to work.

Karen Storey, Homespace