Mary the Cleaner has left my employ, allegedly for greener pastures – a full-time position with a precarious couple and their +/- six-month-old twins. Personally, I’d rather cover myself with faeces and listen to a smoke alarm for eight solid hours than take this option (hey, that’s kind of what Mary is doing anyway!!), especially considering Mary already had work every day of the week, and her gig with me was effectively half-day with full-day pay, but perhaps the Mare has a fondness for squalling, poohing, demanding infants … multiplied by two.
I have not yet found a replacement for Mary the Cleaner, and thus have been doing a little ‘cleaning’ myself, if by ‘cleaning’ I mean ‘ wiping things with a cloth that probably harbours more germs and lurgies than the surfaces did prior to being wiped ‘clean’.
I’ve also attempted a little pre-spring cleaning, and have so far disposed of a clock which was problematic from day 30, and with which I stupidly persisted for almost three years; a fan which died about a year after I got it after I suspect it was dropped by Mary (though I have no proof for this, and of course I realise I sound entirely like a middle-class madam when I suspect the domestic worker of breakage); a DVD player that was struck by lightning last year; and three chipped mugs.
I’ve yet to get rid of the oil heater that broke three years ago.
So much of breakage.
The worst part of my attempt at cleaning or spring cleaning or not getting engulfed in filth, was attempting to vacuum the disgusting floor-covering in my bedroom, which is closer both in texture and appearance to sandpaper than carpet.
I discovered that the machine was blowing instead of sucking. I thus opened it up only to discover enough dust to have me sneezing until late into the night, despite popping an industrial-grade antihistamine. Just fur and fluff and dust and dirt clogging up this machine’s bag which had very obviously not been changed once since it was purchased last year. Perhaps I shouldn’t have assumed it would have been changed.
I have not checked after cleaning the bag and emptying the vacuum cleaner if it is now, in fact, able to suck. That is a chore for this afternoon.
I am horribly concerned that I may have to leave it outside my front door to be carted away as yet another possession that has bitten the dust (haw haw haw, cough cough) in the past 3.5 years in my flat.
Who needs contents insurance? Nothing lasts in my abode, anyway.