Your cleaner hates you
Not of course in the way she hates Crocs, Jacob Rees Mogg or the kind of people who talk about going for a cheeky Nando’s ,
But, make no mistake, your cleaner hates you.
And just because she knows the names of your dog, guinea pigs and husband and remembers to ask about your son, studying what was it…..forensic physiology and photography ……don’t be fooled, your cleaner hates you.
Sometimes, your cleaner wonders what exactly it is you do all day, given that you have a woman to clean your house and a woman to iron your clothes and another, slightly younger posher woman to walk you dog….
Oh, they hate you too.
You tell your cleaner that you have projects on the go as you waft to your study on the 3rd floor, your room of your own
What you don’t do up there….ever…..is bring down the multitude of mouldy and malodourous mugs, some homage to a long gone undergraduate lifestyle and your cleaner would like you to know that emptying an ash tray into a wicker waste paper basket is exactly the same as not emptying it all but with additional hoovering work.
Your cleaner hates you.
Your cleaner has flicked through your expensive moleskin bound journal and quite frankly her advice would be to not give up your day job, if of course you had a day job to give up.
Your cleaner hates your poetry.
Your cleaner hates the rumpled crumpled used tissues your leave in your unmade bed.
She hates the ring of pubic pelt around your bath, but at least she knows for sure that you’re not a natural blonde
But most of all your cleaner hates the notes
The ‘House in a bit of a state today, please work your usual magic, kiss kiss”
The “ If you get time today, can you empty all the kitchen cupboards, clean them and put everything back, but you know, just better, kiss, kiss, kiss”
The ” Don’t bother coming for the next 2 weeks, we’re away, kiss”
Come the day of the glorious revolution, you will find yourself not with your back against the wall, instead, you will be issued with an official cleaner car,
12, 13 years old, prone to making noises of terrifying potential expense that you will be forced to drive everywhere with the stereo as loud as you can bear, while you mumble prayers to some god of paupers transportation
Please just let the car last a few more months
And every time you hit a speed bump or a pothole, the buckets and mops and Hoover in the boot will jump into the air and crash down with another layer of cacophony chaos
And you will get to wear cleaner clothes, badly fitting grey joggers and a sweatshirt full of holes where neat bleach has burnt through fabric to meet soft bare flesh.
You will become your cleaners cleaner
Your cleaner, your ex cleaner will look you in the eye and she will know that you hate her, but actually, actually, your cleaner, your excleaner, well actually,
Your ex cleaner won’t give a flying f******.