I do know what the problem is, and I will not burden you with my personal neuroses. Just remember that the first short story of my adult life is called “The Closet and the Money,” and deals with the detritus of the Second World War, that somehow wound up stuffed in a standing closet in my childhood bedroom. That’s all I will say for now.

But I do so wish I could move just ten centimeters toward Anna’s end of the spectrum.

Anna emailed me today and asked if I would like her to bring over some of her new hangers, which can be custom tailored with shoulder pads or skirt clips, to suit the exact garment that will hang on this hanger.

I would. So I thought I’d begin cleaning out my closets by bringing some crappy old hangers back to the dry cleaner, as I am not planning to go into the illegal abortion business any time soon. Surely I could part with wire hangers. And then I could practice color coding the shirts in my husband’s closets. This should be a fairly elementary exercise, as he only owns two colors of shirts.

The photo on the right is about as far as I got.

If you live in Germany or the UK, I recommend that you contact LadyButler. The alternative is Bellevue.

The play is “The Birthday,” by Harold Pinter. It is Samuel Beckett light. There is too much human interest and entertainment for a Beckett play. No matter how badly it’s played, I’ve never heard anyone laugh at “Waiting for Godot.”

Nothing much happens in this play, either. It’s someone’s birthday, or it isn’t; two strangers arrive; the birthday boy leaves the next morning as a zombie. I wonder if I am suffering James Joycean déja-vu, or if I really recognize a boarding house, a mother, an eligible daughter figure, a stage Irishman and a Jew. Maybe it’s like sensory deprivation: you start to project.

And I’m Marie Antoinette.

“It’s the Pont Alexandre III,” I said, losing all hope. We walk right past the Champs Elysées, our alleged destination.

“My friend Sarah’s apartment is around this corner,” I mention to my husband. He thinks this can’t be true.

A few blocks later, I point out the apartment of someone I worked for.

“It’s the place François I,” chides my husband.

“Well, it has to be somewhere,“ I say.

Perhaps I am deluded, I think. Perhaps they really know Paris much better than I do.