Miss Hahn looked down at herself. The large hole in the towel corresponded with her pinkened lower thigh area. She emitted a growl (Yes, an actual growl. She really was quite incensed!), and then snatched the towel away from her body (she was naked. Underneath. And pink. I think I may have already mentioned that), bundled it up at one end (I thought she might be planning to whip me with it!) and then draped it (well, slung it, more like) over my shoulder.

‘That’s because it’s the floor towel, Mr Huff,’ she snapped. ‘It’s intended to be used for the floor. It may have escaped your notice, but you’ve caught me somewhat on the hop.’

Then she slammed her way back inside (the imprint of a slatted, wooden bench indenting her pinkened thighs and buttocks as she angrily retreated).

I gingerly removed the floor towel from my shoulder. How odd. Did she grab the floor towel by mistake, I wonder? Doesn’t she bring her own towel to the sauna? Or a robe? A towelling robe? Or – perish the thought – does she never actually use a towel in the sauna? Does she just … Does Miss Hahn simply saunter about the house and the garden (I glanced around me. Nope. She wasn’t noticeably overlooked by any neighbours; possibly because their properties had all fallen into the sea by this stage), getting in and out of the sauna, at will, completely and utterly – unapologetically – starkers (and by that I mean with no clothes on whatsoever)? Might this be her Russian-German ancestry coming into play here?

‘Miss Hahn?’

I knocked on the door.

No response (Well, perhaps a gentle harrumph).

‘Miss Hahn?’

Another knock.

‘Either join me in the sauna,’ she yelled (irate! Plainly irate!), ‘or please go away, Mr Huff!’

‘But Miss Hahn …? Might we just …?’

‘I am having this sauna, Mr Huff, come hell or high water. It takes several hours to fire it up and I’m not going to let it go to waste on your account.’

Pause.

‘On anybody’s account’ (she modified).

Pause.

‘It’s nothing personal.’ (Almost regretful, now.)

‘Miss Hahn, might we just …? I don’t …’

No response.

‘I can’t possibly come into the sauna in my woollen suit, Miss Hahn,’ I informed her (quite strictly). ‘And are you aware of the fact that there is a small fissure, a crack, running right across your lawn which disappears directly beneath this structure?’

No response.

‘I just wanted to return … to talk to you about the money you left scattered all over the floor at the cottage, Miss Hahn.’

No response.

‘Look, I’m very sorry to have walked in on you like that. Unannounced. It was rude – ungentlemanly. And I didn’t mean to call you complacent, either … Well, I did, but that was simply when I thought this was … that you were …’

No response.

‘How long does a sauna generally take, Miss Hahn?’

No response.

Oh for heaven’s sake! I took off my suit and shirt and placed them (neatly folded), on to the warping seat of a dilapidated wicker lawn-chair. I pulled off my shoes and slid them underneath. I then removed my glasses and slipped them into the top of my sock (for speed of access). I cleared my throat. ‘I’m coming in, Miss Hahn!’ I announced. A noise emerged from within which I would struggle to describe (worse still interpret). I then knocked on the door (as a final precaution) and entered.