THE CLEANER HAS BEEN THIS WEEK. Did you hear that, we have a cleaner. That’s someone other than me who comes in and scrapes up the dried decaying food off the carpet, carves off the dirt from the toilet and weeps in the corner at the sight of the mess.
Despite our initial concerns (of about 1 minute) that we couldn’t justify the cost, we shouldn’t be so lazy and just do it ourselves, how would we feel about someone coming into our home and that she may find our red Fifty Shades of Grey room, we decided to just do it. I would like to say I feel like a Z-list celeb who appreciates a mention in Heat magazine, but no because apparently loads of people have cleaners. Since my “guess what we’ve got a cleaner” comment in conversation, this isn’t a totally new thing to have. Screw the recession, it’s actually like the 80s out there. We had pasta for tea. You probably had quails’ eggs on a bed of rocket with truffle oil.
So after scooping up the general layers of clothing, towels, toys, piles of “we must sort out this stack of paperwork” and essentially hiding them, we felt ready for her arrival.
I bought the 43 bottles of extra cleaning products we were lacking and left for work.
And then when I came home the house looked like a dream. She had folded every single towels loitering upstairs over doors, chucked in wardrobes (not joking) and hanging on radiators. She laid the tea towels in a special way in the kitchen. She lined up the various ride-on toys of my daughter’s as if we had a car port. And she’d remade our bed. GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH. Our bed is changed once a week. I promise. But within that week window an avalanche of children’s bodily fluids are thrown at it. The boy baby comes into our bed and sometimes spits out his milk. Or he leaves his bottle on the bed and it drips milk onto the duvet to create these hideous circles of stains. He also has a new trick whereby he pulls apart his sleepsuit and picks his nappy till it explodes. He has done it no less than 9 times in the last few days. Tried picking up wee-soaked grains of nappy innards at 5am? It’s a tedious game and we are never the winners. Needless to say I change the bed every week or more. On a Thursday. THE DAY AFTER THE CLEANER CAME. And as she made the bed (which was already made) she must’ve seen the Trainspotting-esque disaster.
I texted Mr MotherFudger and described the beauty of the house. And then I basked in the glory. For about 10 minutes before the kid bomb went off.
And I have changed the bed, I promise.