I stood up and wiped my forehead just below my Alice band. I had been wiping the floor with a cloth, and dust coated my jeans.
‘Wow, you should have done a tap-to-tidy on this place.’
I furrowed my brow.
‘What’s a tap-to-tidy?’ I stood up and felt my muscles ache where I had been crouched.
‘Oh, it’s all over Instagram. These “cleanstagrammers”, they post a photo of their disorganised kitchen counter then ask you to tap the screen, which takes you to the next picture, where – voilà! – the kitchen counter is tidy. Like a before-and-after photo.’ Mini looked longingly round the space. ‘This would have made an awesome tap-to-tidy post.’
I still was not entirely sure what she was talking about. Technology hadn’t been a part of my life for so long. I had only recently opened an Instagram account with the intention of using it to showcase my artwork, and so far I had posted precisely three photos. One of an autumn sunset that had inspired me to create something similar in textile-form, and the other two were some preliminary sketches of a piece I wanted to create with recycled rubbish.
Mini stepped aside to let me out of the summerhouse.
‘Look.’ Mini was at my side, precariously close. I felt my body clench up. She brought up her Instagram account on her phone then held it close to my face; I could smell strawberry hand cream and mint chewing gum as she began scrolling.
‘This woman is a cleanstagrammer. I follow a few of them – some of these women aren’t just cleaners, they are accidental interior designers.’ Mini shook her head. ‘I mean, it’s great and all, but I do get a tad jealous that these women are getting paid thousands a year in sponsorship and given endless free products when I have to fork out to pay to learn how to be an interior designer. Sometimes I just think I should do this instead.’
I looked on in amazement as Mini scrolled through wall after wall of little tiny squares, all showcasing perfect symmetrical images with impeccably clean surfaces and immaculately made beds. I looked on at the incredible neatness in each photo, and a sublime sense of calm washed over me.
‘I mean look at this woman, Clean and Bright, seven hundred and fifty thousand followers, and now she’s launching her own home fragrance.’ Mini carried on relentlessly scrolling. ‘And this woman, Heather Duster. I mean, that’s clever, right? Well, she has almost a million followers. A million people, Regi – it’s insane, isn’t it?’
‘Wow, it’s a whole other world I had no idea about,’ I said, itching to see more of the symmetry and orderliness.
‘It’s a clever little app. But then all clever things come in small packages.’ She giggled, looking down at herself. ‘I mean, look at some of these accounts – they all must have massive OCD to keep their houses that spotless…’ Mini trailed off and looked at me with slight panic in her eyes. Her phone fell to her side and she took a step backwards. I felt relief to get my personal space back. ‘I mean, that’s not a bad thing – if it gets their houses looking that clean, I wouldn’t complain.’
I gave Mini a reassuring smile. ‘It’s fine, Mini, like all people with OCD, I don’t consider myself to have a problem. We’re all absolutely fine.’ I made my eyes go a bit funny and Mini laughed. The tension between us washed away. I had told all the girls when I came to view the house that I had what had been classified by a doctor as OCD, and that it manifested itself in the daily behaviours I had to do. Sophia was the only one who really took an avid interest; she had sat up with me on the first night, long after the other two had gone to bed, and asked me all about it. She was always careful not to tread too close to the crux of the problem, where my behaviour originated from; that part was never going to be open for discussion.
‘Anyway, enjoy the cleanstagrammers, but don’t overdo it. Studies have been done into the overall mental health of Instagram users and found that it can actually trigger depression and anxiety.’ Mini pointed over at the summerhouse. ‘It’s looking good in there already.’ And she sashayed away in that dreamy way of hers, her mind already on something else.
I looked over at the summerhouse. Yes, it had potential, but it needed a good clean-up and a sort-out. I found myself drawn to my phone, to my Instagram account, and before I knew it, I had begun searching for cleanstagrammers and interior design accounts. I clicked and clicked furiously until I found an account that really caught my eye. Heeding Mini’s words, if I limited the amount of accounts I followed, I wouldn’t be doing any more damage to my mental health.
As I looked through, I took the notebook and pen I brought in with me, in case I had any brainwaves for my textile designs, and I started noting down ideas, ways to hang photos and how to position plant pots, things I initially thought I would use for the summerhouse but before I knew it I was discovering tips and techniques that I could take into the house with me: where to get labels from to label jars, ways to clean a sink without harsh chemicals and which products to use on the floor. Some of the cleanstagrammers even had links to printable worksheets that you could work to on a weekly basis and I thought about the satisfaction I could gain from the organisation and how soothing that could be.
I was drawn to an account called Mrs Clean. Her Instagram profile was hundreds of squares of simplicity, elegance and symmetry. I couldn’t get enough of it.
I scrolled all the way back to her very first post, which showed
