the cleaner

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In an effort to ignore the blustery winds which are trying to force my bus into the path of every approaching lorry, I'm going to tell you the story of The Cleaner. {Spoiler alert!!! The Cleaner is me!!!} Husband is under the illusion that we live in a home which is either a) also home to some teeny-tiny little pixie-faeries who pop out to wave their sparkly wands of magic every so often, b) inhabited by a house-elf called Dobby, or c) a home of the future, where every appliance, every surface and every item of clothing is so technologically advanced that it can tidy, wash and clean itself. I suppose it's also possible that he assumes that Dora-cat slips into a rather fetching apron every time we leave the house and bullies Qzy-cat by using his fluffy tail as a broom ... He's going to get a nasty shock if anything ever happens to me {today it may be a tree toppling onto my head}. He won't run out of clean plates and mugs for the dishwasher is his domain. Likewise, he'll enjoy clean floors because I've trained him in the art of vacuum cleaner madness. But his bed-sheets will never get changed, his underwear will never see the inside of the washing machine and he'll eventually work out that he can't see the tellybox through the dust. No doubt he will end up as entertainment on one of those House of Horrors! programmes where some brave person lifts the lid on the toilet and peers into the murky insides. Crumbs will litter every kitchen counter-top and the fridge will stink. Goodness knows what will be found under the bed upon his death. Of course, I can't really grumble. I'm very much a Pffft, you never help me! Do this! No, not like that! Oh for goshness sake, I'll do it myself! Go and play on the PlayStation and keep out of my way! kind of person. It took over ten years of training before he got the hang of vacuuming and making the bed. I just don't have the energy anymore; it's easier just to get on with it on my own, silently and diligently. Bless him.