It all got very International Confessions of a Plumber round at Fag Hag mansions today.
The trouble started when Dora, the Bulgarian cleaner, over-twisted the bathroom tap, forcing me to call Tony the Albanian plumber, who brought Tomac, his Polish assistant, along with him. (Now I know how Angelina feels of a morn). Anyway, Tony, it transpired, had more on his mind then simply replacing my washer – though lord knows it could do with replacing…
‘You very pretty lady,’ he grinned, exposing teeth that looked like they hadn’t uttered the words ‘no sugar for me thanks’ in quite some time. ‘Thank you,’ I replied, wrapping my cardy round me like Ugly Betty. And believe me, with four-day-old hair, smudged mascara and my Indiana Jones glasses, I was most certainly not very pretty lady. I was fucking hideous lady.
‘I take you for dinner yes?’ he suggested, wielding a spanner knowingly. ‘Err, thanks so much but I’m afraid I’ll have to decline your offer,’ I replied, like a pensioner in acrylic knits addressing the banker on Deal or No Deal.
And I’m glad I did. I had to knock the bastard down as he only tried to over-charge me – 90 quid for 20 minutes. I mean please – I could get a lap-dance for less. With someone who doesn’t have poo on their fingers and flosses.