So I’ve finally given in and got a cleaner – it’s getting too hard to cope with cleaning the flat myself, I can’t bend easily, my energy levels are low and I look at the carpet and think ‘time for another sleep’. This after much wrestling with my feminist principles as I’ve never really approved of paying another woman to clean up after me.
But another few steps on the slippery slope of serious illness prove to be unexpectedly hilarious. My lovely elderly neighbour recently died and her housekeeper still looks after the place and regularly knocks on my door as she doesn’t like going into the room the neighbour died in. So we sit and chat, have a coffee and one day I asked her if she knew anyone who might want to do some cleaning for me. She volunteered immediately and as we’ve known each other for decades it seemed a great idea.
She turned up on yesterday like a whirling dervish of hygiene. Thought my hoover wasn’t right or my cleaning products come to that. I’d cleared up a bit and cleaned the bathroom and kitchen before she arrived and also shut the door to my office in case it frightened her.
She wasn’t impressed at all with my cleaning and tidying, ‘you can’t live like this, it’s not good for you’ she said, in the tone of someone who needs urgent medical intervention. ‘I’ll come back for an emergency kitchen clean on Saturday before my holidays’. She’d been cleaning the kitchen for an hour, all surfaces now gleaming in a slightly menacing way.
I’ve been shopping for the missing cleaning ingredients, opening up a whole new vista of expectations.
‘We must tackle the papers too’ she says of the very small pile on my sofa. Door to the office will remain firmly closed.