As I already confessed to you readers last week, I am nowhere near what one could in any way consider to be a tidy person. On the contrary, I have the propensity to be quite messy and disorganised (though I have to stick up for myself at this point and add that there is a method to my madness, and that if one had to ask me for a particular Post-it - remind me one day to discuss my obsession with Post-its - I will be able to go straight to the pile which it is in and pull it out within a matter of seconds).
I am not - by any stretch of the imagination - a dirty person. Messy as I may be, I like my surroundings to be clean, but the truth is I have as much enthusiasm for the act of cleaning as I have for John McCain and his scary sidekick being elected to the White House. Which is why - for the last five years or so - I have been paying someone £8 an hour for three hours a week to clean my humble abode.
Well, let's just put that in the past tense now, because as of last week, I am not paying anyone anything anymore because the lady who used to come and clean the flat walked out on me leaving behind her nothing but a note accusing me of being unfair in her treatment, and mistrusting.
This after I politely pointed out to her in a text message (I was at work so I couldn't call her), that I didn't think that she ever spent more than two hours in the flat, which in this period of cost-cutting, is not exactly what I would call fair. "No hard feelings, Joe," she wrote at the end of her missive, which even included a kiss. Some good that's going to do to my weekends, I thought, as visions of me and the rest of the inhabitants of this residence spending our free days mopping and dusting filled my head. (Hugely exaggerated of course, since she always managed to do it in less than two hours).
The big problem now is going to be finding a replacement. It took us about a year to find this one, so I'm keeping my fingers double crossed about the whole matter. I asked Ex-Flatmate, who had a very good one when she moved to Pimlico, but she said that Pimlico was as far north of the river as this one would go; Current Flatmate thinks that she may know someone who knows someone who might know of someone; the cleaner at work said to me yesterday that she might be able to help, but already has a full schedule. At this rate, we might have someone cleaning the flat by Christmas, if we're lucky.
It doesn't help that I am quite particular about what I want. My ideal candidate for the job is female, middle-aged and Catholic (I want a person who believes that cleanliness is next to Godliness). The last one filled two of the three requirements, with Catholicism being replaced by Maltese ancestry - which means that the cleanliness and Godliness malarkey is in her genetic makeup. I'd never smelt Dettol in England until she entered our lives. No actually, I did once, ages ago, when my family was visiting and I returned home to find my mother washing the front doorstep with it - the only time ever in more than 20 years in this country that I ever saw someone washing a doorstep.
There's also the issue of trust to take into consideration. In a city heaving with crooks and lunatics, you've got to be careful about who to allow in your house every week - I've heard some very creepy stories.
At one point in the four years during which Ex-Flatmate and I lived together, we often used to think of setting up a cleaning agency in London employing Maltese people. Never have I wished for a fantasy to be fulfilled than I am now doing about that one - as it would mean the end of my worries. With all this talk of economic crises, and autumn settling in, the last thing I want to be thinking about is who is going to clean our home. So anybody reading this with any suggestions, please apply within!
• A quick one: Yesterday I had one of the mothers of my goddaughter for dinner. They're all heading off your way for a week's holiday. Since I know they're dedicated readers of my drivel, let me take this opportunity to wish them all a lovely stay. I hope the weather's good!
I am not - by any stretch of the imagination - a dirty person. Messy as I may be, I like my surroundings to be clean, but the truth is I have as much enthusiasm for the act of cleaning as I have for John McCain and his scary sidekick being elected to the White House. Which is why - for the last five years or so - I have been paying someone £8 an hour for three hours a week to clean my humble abode.
Well, let's just put that in the past tense now, because as of last week, I am not paying anyone anything anymore because the lady who used to come and clean the flat walked out on me leaving behind her nothing but a note accusing me of being unfair in her treatment, and mistrusting.
This after I politely pointed out to her in a text message (I was at work so I couldn't call her), that I didn't think that she ever spent more than two hours in the flat, which in this period of cost-cutting, is not exactly what I would call fair. "No hard feelings, Joe," she wrote at the end of her missive, which even included a kiss. Some good that's going to do to my weekends, I thought, as visions of me and the rest of the inhabitants of this residence spending our free days mopping and dusting filled my head. (Hugely exaggerated of course, since she always managed to do it in less than two hours).
The big problem now is going to be finding a replacement. It took us about a year to find this one, so I'm keeping my fingers double crossed about the whole matter. I asked Ex-Flatmate, who had a very good one when she moved to Pimlico, but she said that Pimlico was as far north of the river as this one would go; Current Flatmate thinks that she may know someone who knows someone who might know of someone; the cleaner at work said to me yesterday that she might be able to help, but already has a full schedule. At this rate, we might have someone cleaning the flat by Christmas, if we're lucky.
It doesn't help that I am quite particular about what I want. My ideal candidate for the job is female, middle-aged and Catholic (I want a person who believes that cleanliness is next to Godliness). The last one filled two of the three requirements, with Catholicism being replaced by Maltese ancestry - which means that the cleanliness and Godliness malarkey is in her genetic makeup. I'd never smelt Dettol in England until she entered our lives. No actually, I did once, ages ago, when my family was visiting and I returned home to find my mother washing the front doorstep with it - the only time ever in more than 20 years in this country that I ever saw someone washing a doorstep.
There's also the issue of trust to take into consideration. In a city heaving with crooks and lunatics, you've got to be careful about who to allow in your house every week - I've heard some very creepy stories.
At one point in the four years during which Ex-Flatmate and I lived together, we often used to think of setting up a cleaning agency in London employing Maltese people. Never have I wished for a fantasy to be fulfilled than I am now doing about that one - as it would mean the end of my worries. With all this talk of economic crises, and autumn settling in, the last thing I want to be thinking about is who is going to clean our home. So anybody reading this with any suggestions, please apply within!
• A quick one: Yesterday I had one of the mothers of my goddaughter for dinner. They're all heading off your way for a week's holiday. Since I know they're dedicated readers of my drivel, let me take this opportunity to wish them all a lovely stay. I hope the weather's good!