Two

A year after it came to our (and our landladies) attention that our heating system was giving us carbon-monoxide poisoning, she finally called a man to install a new heater for us. Unfortunately for us, our landlady is very, very cheap, and the installation process was rather more protracted and messy than would normally be the case. Our entire apartment was coated in plaster.

So, we called in Isabelle the cleaner. Isabelle is an amazingly quick and efficient cleaner and, as such, she terrifies us. She refuses to work unless you provide her with exactly the right brand and variety of cleaning products. Only purple windex is good enough for Isabelle, and floor cleaner must be pine-scented or she will not clean. During the early days of life with Isabelle, we questioned whether perhaps we, the clients, should get to have a say in the scent of our floor. We soon learned not to argue. She is the professional, and we are ignorant in the ways of cleaning.

Isabelle doesn’t just clean. She likes to rearrange. Usually her rearrangements of furniture are genius – she moves things to logical places that saves space or are aesthetically pleasing in ways you never would have imagined. Sometimes you have to spend a good half hour after she’s been round searching for, say, the George Forman grill or your favourite blanket, but it’s worth it when you discover she’s moved these items to the perfect place.

Isabelle did a great job cleaning the dust and debris caused by the heater installation. The only problem I have is that, two months on, I am still unable to locate my tampon supply. They had been stored in a box next to the toilet, which I thought was a fairly sensible location for them. Clearly Isabelle disagreed. Maybe she didn’t like them being on display. I checked the bathroom cabinets first, then my bedside drawers, then my closet. I have now worked my way through the whole house searching for the missing tampons. I know I can easily buy some more, but dammit I’m intrigued. Where could she have moved them too? She always puts things in such great places, that I really want to know where she thinks I should keep my sanitary protection.

The only conclusion I can draw is that Isabelle does not approve of tampons and threw them away in some seething, silent disgust. I’ll let you know if I ever find them.