We are working like a well-oiled machine especially now the wisdom of sleeping for an extra hour in the morning has sunk in. Today the lunches were made after breakfast and there was even time to clean up the debris in Bedroom 2. We found several independent school socks and lots of hair do-daddies, as well as Gran’s jandals that she obviously saw no need to cart to England. Naturally it wasn’t our idea to clean it up. It was the bright as you-know-what house-keeper who rocked up at 8am and started rearranging the furniture. She loves the kids but she loves the dog more and was a bit put out when Bella went with me down to check the washing. When we got back she informed me the vacuum cleaner wouldn’t suck. For a moment I was overcome with shame as I imagined it jammed up with multiplying maggots until I remembered I’d emptied them into the bin and sent a lethal dose of fly spray up the hose. It wasn’t maggots, it was something else stuck in the pipe. “No.” she says smiling and daring me to disbelieve her. “I’ve put a knife down it. But look,” she says holding the maggoty end on her bare forearm as she turned on the machine, “This works.” I watched her rub the big red circle on her arm and thought, that’s because something’s stuck in the pipe that’s lying on the floor. I was at a loss how to push the point and had decided I’d wait and check it out later when she was struck by inspiration. “Hold on. Let me try this…” she said getting another knife out of the drawer and inserting it into the pipe where she discovered the combined furballs of sixty million dogs and a large selection of the sort of plastic crap that kids typically get from somewhere for free. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the kids parents were up that spout as well but one thing is certain, that vacuum has only been half in the game for a very long time. To round off the early morning entertainment, the super cleaner asked me to take out the recycling “since you’re going that way. Hold on, we may as well fill it up,” she said jamming the bin in question with used tissues and other items from the bathroom rubbish bin. “No, that’s not recycling,” I said and received an ambiguous “Yes” in reply. What does that mean, yes? If I could of accounted for all the knives maybe things would’ve been cleared up but I did not want to be responsible for the loss of an excellent housekeeper. Instead I waited until she went up the hall and transferred the not-recyclable bathroom waste into the general waste bin. When I left, recycling bin in hand, she blew me a two handed kiss. I wondered all the way to the shops if it was a kiss of gratitude or was she just pleased to see me go?
Yes, seems to be the only answer to that one.
Robyn Anderson 