I need a cleaner. What had been the selling point of my new house has now become the bane of my life. Prior to moving in I had been heard airily proclaiming -
‘oh, it’s lovely, all open-plan downstairs, lovely and bright! And since it’s smaller it will be sooo much easier to keep clean’.
WRONG! It’s a bloody nightmare because whereas in my last place there were a labyrinth of rooms to chuck things into, in this place there is nowhere to hide. The lovely open spaces are filled with piles of washing, school bags and paperwork. Open-plan is the kiss of death unless you have enough storage to match the size of the room or you are uber organised.
Having a cleaner has a good effect on me, it keeps me on the straight and narrow. In my previous house I had one and on the days that she visited I would spend the morning tidying up, cleaning toilets, generally making her job a little less difficult. And mysteriously, what might take me days to get through she would have finished in 2 hours.
They say that a clean house is a sign of a wasted life, but what is a messy house a sign of? It's not as if I'm spending all my time in the gym, juggling a hectic social life or the CEO of a company. A dirty, messy house in my opinion, results in a very disorganised life. It's a vicious circle of mess and despair.
These days being a ‘Monica’ or ‘OCD’ is a fashionable sobriquet for being a very good housekeeper (which doesn't sound half as quirky or trendy). My mother would have fallen into this catagory. So obsessed with order and tidiness, she would rush us to finish our dinner so that she could wash the plates. To her, to linger over a boozy dinner was a nightmare and only resulted in further unneccessary mess. As a teenager I decided to treat my parents and cook dinner for them. In an attempt to create a nice relaxed atmosphere, I lit some candles and put on some nice jazz. She came in, turned on the lights, turned off the music and blew out the candles. Taking in the blackened wicks , she accused me ‘you’ve ruined them, I have to throw them away now!’
I’m guessing that her obsession with cleanliness and order had the opposite effect on me. Since she did everything for me, I found moving away from home traumatic on so many levels. I remember starting boarding school as a 12 year old. I had no idea how to make my bed in the mornings (or brush my hair, or find my shoes) and my cubicle was a disgrace with dirty washing strewn all over the floor. I once ventured down to the laundry (it was more like a magdalene laundry…..it was a convent) and after spending an hour trying to wrestle with the archaic spinner I gave in and just brought it all home at weekends.
I once went on a school trip to (the former) Yugoslavia. We were staying in a hotel in Umag where one night there was a burglary in one of the rooms. The police were obliged to knock on the door of each room to check that nothing had been taken. I was sharing a room with another girl and between us we were total sloths, our room was testement to this with a ransacked collection of clothes, souvenirs and empty wrappers. The policeman and hotel manager took in the catastrophic mess around us and concluded that the burglary was worse than they had initially thought. Red faced I was obliged to admit that it wasn’t a break in but rather our own mess.
But having someone to clean my mess sits uneasily with me. After all, on my UAE residents visa I’m described as a ‘housewife’ which heavily implies that I spend my days creating an orderly and harmonious home for my husband and children where the oven constantly churns out home baked treats and each rooms sports a vase of freshly cut flowers. That I waft from room to room, duster in hand wearing a Cath Kidston apron and get my hair and nails done once a week.
The truth is so far from that it’s not funny. I spend hours trying to organise things but I’m so easily distracted that just washing the floor can take half the day. Only last week, arriving home after a night away, I was industriously sweeping up some crumbs in the living room when DH announced he was going upstairs for a shower. 40 minutes later he re-emerged and double took as I was still standing in the exact same spot, broom in hand and the crumbs were still on the floor.
-‘err, you were doing that when I went up’
-‘I know, but I had to send an email, check online for flights, phone my brother and there was something good on the telly...’
Bless him but he doesn’t complain, he’s rather bewildered by it I think and besides, feminism has triumphed to the point that he daren’t question me in case I go on a rant about how I had to give up my (non-existent) career to bear and rear his offspring.
Besides, having live-in 'help' (I can't bring myself to use the word 'maid' it conjures up images of mob caps and episodes of 'Upstairs, Downstairs') is positively de riguer here in the UAE. More than once I've heard 'No maid, no nanny, are you crazy, you've got four kids!' like it's some sort of nasty disease. At home you have to make a regular appearance in Hello magazine to be able afford such a luxury. Of course the idea is tempting, but it just seems too much bother, although having someone to clean up after dinner, or to watch the kids while I go to the supermarket would be in the realm of Jim'll fix it in terms of dreams come true!
I have a friend who confided that she doesn’t go downstairs in the morning until the entire upstairs is clean, tidy and perfect. She is downstairs by 7am! My housekeeping goals for the week are more modest, aiming for having everything done by, say, Thursday, by which time it’s all messed up again anyway.
I’m always amazed when I am invited for an impromptu coffee by a mother at the school gate.
-‘what NOW?’ I will ask.
-‘Yes, why not?’ they will reply.
-‘Don’t you need to like, tidy up?’,
-‘well, it’s a mess but I don’t mind if you don’t mind’ they’ll cheerily reply.
Inevitably the house is perfect, not just all the toys are picked up off the floor and rubbish kicked under the sofa, but polished, dusted, with scatter cushions thoughtfully placed. They make fresh coffee and have home baked cakes. Often, bafflingly, they’ll offer to show me around the rest of the house where I’ll be shown every perfect room, right down to the en suite bathroom.
I prefer a 3 days warning before I entertain and even at that, I can only just about manage a tidy living room (albeit with graffitied walls), and then I’ll forget the milk and there won’t be any sugar in the house.
So I’m going to phone the cleaning services this week and book someone to come at the end of the week. I need that long to prepare. It doesn't matter what standard of service they give, it can't be any worse than my own. Although we'll probably have to book into a hotel for the weekend to ensure that it's still nice by Sunday, I do like starting the week with a tidy house.
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