I was 21 when I first met Maria, my cleaner and life organiser. I’d just moved to London and having had enough of cleaning rotas in previous flatshares, agreed with my new flatmate that we should split the cost of a weekly spruce of our communal areas, such as the kitchen, living room and bathroom.

Maria was brilliant and her presence meant we never had to bicker over who had left dishes in the sink, or whose turn it was to take the bins out.My bedroom on the other hand was less harmonious. I used to spend Saturdays trying to sort out the mess my room had descended into over the course of the week, but always failed to get on top of it. There were piles of clothes – both clean and half-worn on the bed. My bedside table was covered in mugs. And the floor was nowhere to be seen – under notebooks, packets of baby wipes, and general junk.So one week, I tentatively asked Maria if I she was open to me paying her to tidy my bedroom, and putting the dried washing away. She was keen and, to my surprise, took 30 minutes to do what had taken me hours. I still remember the relief coursing through my system when I saw my bedroom floor no longer the site of an obstacle course, and my bed........

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