In which FH has trouble with her staff.
How do you break up with a crap cleaner? Do you look up the translation of ‘It’s not me, it’s you’ in Bulgarian? Do you wrap things up in the manner of a talk-show host by saying, ‘Well, it’s been great having you on the show but I’m afraid that’s all we’ve got time for!’?
Or do you favour the tough love approach as advocated by my Aunt, who once said to a Polish builder claiming not to understand her, ‘You’re a fucking cunt. Do you understand THAT?’
You see my cleaner is the worst cleaner in London – and even that’s a goddamn compliment. Last week she put a £500 Amanda Wakely silk dress, Armani silk blouse and assorted cashmere cardigans in a 90-degree wash making them so small even a Borrower with bulimia would be busting the zip. Bitch, if you wanted to insinuate that I could do with losing a few pounds there are cheaper ways!
The week before that, she hid my deodorant in the cutlery drawer meaning I was sweating like Heather Mills under a lie detector, and the week before that took all the covers off my cushions, stuffed them in a black plastic bin liner and hid them in the bottom of a wardrobe. When I come back to survey her work, it’s less like a cleaner has been and more like a paranoid schizophrenic has been let loose in my flat.
But boys, for all my bitch festing and tough talk, I cannot bring myself to sack the woman. In fact, last week when I tried to sack her she gave me Cat-from-Shrek comedy doleful eyes and what came out of my mouth instead was, ‘I’ve been thinking, we need to talk… why don’t I give you a raise?’
So for now it seems until I grow some bollocks I’m stuck with a crap cleaner. But if she so much as touches my Triga DVD again, the bitch is history.