As she pushes the back door open, she says, over her shoulder, ‘I have an internet business. Something Walter and I did in retirement for some spending money, though it became a little bigger than that.’

‘Really? I have one too.’ It’s out of me before I can cross-reference it against the realtor playbook. ‘I import tool cabinets and sell them online.’

Who knows how many people all over Girdwood are buying things and selling them, sourcing them and shifting them, linking one thing or another with people who think they need them?

Ellen stops and puts her hands on her hips. ‘You don’t say? Well, you know what it’s like to have stock around the place then.’

‘I actually have a storage unit in Anchorage.’

‘Ah, you’ve already decluttered.’ She moves the keys around in her hand, selects the right one.

‘It adds to the cost, though, hiring a storage unit.’ I stand back to take a proper look at the building as she unlocks the door. ‘This . . . this is what I need. Something like this at home, or a container in the backyard. Though a container would be kind of ugly. That has been pointed out to me.’

‘Well, I hear this whole wonderful place is about to go on the market.’ With a sweep of her arm, she shows off the workshop, the house, the garden. She laughs, to let me know she’s kidding, and then opens the door wide and gestures for me to walk inside. ‘Welcome to Clutter City. Population: me.’

The wall to the left of the door has steel shelving against it, with maybe ten labelled storage boxes on the shelves, along with bags and envelopes in piles. The opposite wall has more shelving, carrying lengths of framing timber of different cuts and colours, sheets of glass arranged in ascending order of size and a stack of what looks to be thick flat cardboard, with a burgundy-coloured L-shaped piece on top. Next to that are two mismatched filing cabinets. Most of the space in the middle of the workshop is taken up by two large trestle tables, one with woodworking equipment on it, scattered shavings and sawdust around it and tools spread out on a shelf beneath, the other set up as a packing station, with rolls of tape and bubble wrap. Clamped to one end of that table is a dispenser with a roll of corrugated packing cardboard on it. More cardboard and bubble wrap is leaning against the wall nearby.

The far corner has a basin, a bar fridge and a cabinet with a drip-filter coffee machine on it, coffee tin beside it. There’s an upturned mug on the drying rack next to the basin, with a teaspoon resting on top of it.

‘So, plumbing . . .’ The word ‘kitchenette’ crossed my mind, but is already in retreat. ‘Any chance there’s a bathroom out here? That’d be worth including . . .’