Clearly, the mop has skimmed only the margins, and the corners are repositories of everyday grime. Lifting up the hall mat reveals a perfect rectangle of dust redolent of a TV crime scene. Yet open the door and you’ll see a crusting pool of milk from a late-night hot chocolate spillage. The outside of the microwave may have been spritzed to its shiniest Sunday best. The kitchen bin hasn’t been emptied and there’s a filmy layer of grease on the cupboard handles. But peer closer and it’s obvious the house hasn’t been actually cleaned at all. Unfortunately, as I’ve come to discover, such appearances are profoundly deceptive. A familiar sign that my lovely cleaning lady - let’s call her Sheila - has been in.Ĭan there be any greater pleasure for the time-pressed working woman (or man) than coming back to a clean and tidy house?Īnd, indeed, Sheila’s hallmarks are everywhere: cushions positioned with military precision the crumb-coated kitchen counter free of that morning’s rushed breakfast. Opening the front door after a long and trying day, I pause for a moment to savour the singular aroma of pine-scented disinfectant spray.
