“I can’t decide which of the 27 cleansers to use”

I’m walking in London to the Tube and happen to glance down at my hand.

My ring-mad, silver and the size of a crème egg- is missing.

My old friend V, says “not to worry, it’ll be in the house somewhere.” While my friend has all the A* merits of friendship like loyalty, good humour and an ability to sustain a fondness for me despite knowing me for 20 years, she’s also the undisputed World Queen of Clutter. I’m staying in her house, her jumbled kingdom. I stiffen; I know immediately that my ring is gone for good.

“Probably in the bathroom,” she says, lighting a fag. I feel panic flare; the bathroom is the worst place of all in which to lose something.

My husband is on my left. “Good luck with that,” he says.

While V wanders off to top up her Oyster card, we whisper that she has as much insight into her condition— Cluttermania — as a fig might have. For instance, we whisper, we are on our way to Camden market, where V intends to buy more baubles for her house.

My husband says, “I couldn’t live with all that stuff.” Clearly, he has fig levels of insight too; but for me, he’d be living in the same chaos as V, minus fragrant touches, plus bikes. The image boggles my mind.

“I mean, how does she ever find anything?” He says.

I have no idea.

“I mean, have you seen her bathroom?” he says. I have.

Standing in front of the bathroom sink the night before, I can’t decide which of the 27 cleansers to use. So I use soap instead. I lather and count. The shelving unit in front of me houses 128 products: buffers, polishers, exfoliators, depilators, moisturisers, conditioners, cleansers and cellulite busters.

I estimate that there are approximately 3,000 items in her bathroom; her entire collection of Indian jewellery, amassed over a lifetime, essential oils (172), a small-chemist-sized arsenal of medicines and make-up. There are paintings, bath towels and her signature box. The box replicates itself everywhere; big ones, little ones, flat ones, fat ones, long ones, short ones, all full, in all rooms, stacked on top of each other, in front of and behind things.

“I mean what does she keep in all those boxes?” my husband says.

“Dunno,” I say, “but the small one next to our bed has 28 pairs of scissors and seven pairs of tights in it.” “Why doesn’t she throw anything away?” he asks.

“She likes stuff,” I say, “don’t nag her about it — she’ll say she likes living the way she lives.” “V?” he says as she approaches, “you need to start getting rid of stuff.” “I like living the way I live,” she says. “But how do you find anything?” he asks, “I know where everything is,” she says, “and I never lose anything, not like you.’ She looks at my ring-less finger before striding off to flash her Oyster card at the ticket barrier.

“Where’s my Oyster card?” my husband asks quietly. “Don’t ask me,” I say.

We hurriedly empty pockets, wallets and bags. I find them.

In Camden, V buys a huge pink opal. And a box, “for my bracelets,” she says excitedly.

Back home, she decants bracelets from an old box into her new one. We muscle past the glass- fronted cabinet, (119 cook books, 75 wine glasses, 3 tagines, 40 ramekins, 300 other kitchen items) which is wedged behind the kitchen door.

We make tea, whispering that V has 26 boxes of tea, stacked next to boxes of sunglasses (14), first-aid kits (7) and condiments (83) on top of cupboards she can’t access because there are low stools in the way.

V decides to hunt my ring down. She squeezes past the glass-fronted cabinet and forces open the spare- room door. She begins to search the bed, which is book-ended by 2 filing cabinets, 4 baskets of Afghan flat-weave rugs, 8 Boxes of pashminas, 40 copies of Health and Fitness magazines and 13 packs of menthol filter tips.

No ring; I pass V in the hall. She draws an eyebrow up and yanks the bathroom door open.

I join my husband in the sitting- room.

“Found it,” she calls, cheerily.

“Where? No, seriously, where?” My husband asks.

“Inside one of your shoes,” she drops my crème egg neatly into my palm and says, “what you need is a box.”