Poltergeist

Mrs. Rimbaud says she's getting fed up of the poltergeist.  'Keeps bringing stuff in,' she says.  'Doesn't even put it in the right cupboards!  Just leaves it lying around.'  I ask her what kind of stuff.  She complains that when she gets up in the morning after being kept awake half the night by this poltergeist wheeling stuff into the downstairs rooms, she finds it all over the place.  'Look,' she says, pointing at the TV.  'Where did that come from?  I've never had a TV.'  You need to know that Mrs. Rimbaud lives alone and is getting on a bit.  'This morning I came downstairs, the muesli was in a bowl and there was carpet on the floor.'  I suggest that I thought I saw a carpet there last time I came.  'Not this colour,' she says.  I also suggest that, if there is a poltergeist - and I'm a rationalist, by the way - and if it's bringing all these things into the house, maybe, in this time of economic hardship, it's not such a bad thing.  'I'm getting the priest,' she says, ignoring me.  'At the weekend.  Saturday.  On his day off.'  Does she mean the priest's day off or the poltergeist?
I nod, tell her I'll come by on Saturday to help out and open the front door to leave.  She shouts after me.  'A drawer full of pants!  Where'd that come from?'