Well, Ronnie the cat was back in action again this morning, my own personal but somewhat arbitrary alarm clock. I wondered downstairs bleary eyed, trying not to tread on Ronnie as he clowned around between the banisters, and did what every 40 something woman does on waking, headed for the bathroom. Morning routine of the middle aged. Have a wee, make sure all vital parts of anatomy functioning at least at basic level, have a cup of tea. With my parents it is have a wee, have a cup of tea, check the obituary pages of the local newspaper.
Anyway, back to this morning. As I opened the bathroom door I remembered that we don't have one at present. A couple of very nice men called Gary and Shane ripped it out yesterday. This was by prior arrangement you understand, and not the latest in some bizarre Norfolk craze whereby you go into people's homes in broad daylight and make off with an entire room. So Gary and Shane (not their real names) abandoned me at about 4.00pm yesterday with a cheery 'We'll be back in the morning love', leaving me with an empty shell where the peach bath, toilet and sink once stood. Don't get me wrong, I bore no emotional attachment to my old bathroom (who actually likes peach, the colour of nightmarish 80s bridesmaid dresses?) but I am quite keen on the concept of being able to go to the toilet and wash.
Fortunately we have a very old and not entirely functional toilet and wash basin upstairs so until the new bathroom is complete (anything up to 2 weeks apparently - where are DIY SOS when you need them?) that is what we shall have to use. We'll do our best in the hygiene department, but just to be on the safe side I wouldn't stand down-wind of the Harrison family for now.
One of my favourite quotes is "Being happy does not mean that everything is perfect. It means that you've decided to look beyond the imperfections." This is a much more eloquent way of putting into words what I have been saying for years. If things aren't going the way you wanted there are two choices you have. You can either change things, or if that isn't possible, you can lower your expectations. In fact there is a third choice. Stay exactly as you are and be miserable! Here are some areas of my life where I have had to accept less than perfection.
My Home:
The Dream. I have a big, spacious home in the country but close enough to pop into London, with enough room for all my husband's mess to be hidden away. The elegant driveway leads you to a beautiful, imposing front door with a gleaming brass handle and possibly a butler to open it. The rooms are tastefully decorated, furnished with choice pieces I have picked up from antiques dealers and from my world travels. I greet guests looking immaculate and with a welcoming smile as I effortlessly mingle and hand out pates of mouth-watering canapés I have prepared myself.
The Reality. I have a small, messy house which has seen better days which faces onto a busy road popular with boy racers who can't read speed limits and have appalling taste in music. The plaster is crumbling, we have a smelly hedgehog living under the stairs and the bathroom is an 80s monstrosity featuring a peach suite and wallpaper with the Latin names for flowers on it (also peach). I have to spend hours stuffing all the mess into drawers and cupboards before people come round and usually say 'shall we just get a takeaway?' to any guest brave enough to accept an invitation.
My Car:
The Dream. I have a lovely little sporty number (brand new of course) with every possible gadget you could think of. Who knows, I may even have indulged in some personalised plates. It runs like a dream and I get envious glances from people at traffic lights. I have it waxed and valeted every couple of weeks. It absolutely drinks fuel but I don't care because I'm rich. Sod the environment.
The Reality. I have had a number of cars, each one having been at least third hand. They run ok for a bit but then start rapidly falling apart. Every year it costs more to get it through the MOT than it is actually worth. It has bumps and scratches and I get smirks at the traffic lights. I use my car as an overflow wardrobe/office/skip so it is always liberally strewn with papers, apple cores and crisp packets.
My Job:
The Dream: I am a internationally acclaimed authority on Modern Spanish Literature and run my own literary translation company. When I am not at my beautiful office in Kensington I can be seen jetting off to publishing conventions all over the Spanish-speaking world, staying in 5 star hotels and generally being popular and intelligent.
The Reality: I teach Spanish to teenagers who really would rather be doing anything else and see no relevance in learning their own language, let alone someone else's. I spend my days trying to extract homework from the idle and covering up the penises they have drawn on my display boards.
I had some pretty devastating news yesterday and it is only now, having put 24 hours between the event and writing this, that I feel able to share my pain with the blogosphere. You see, my cleaner told me she was moving and so would no longer be able to work for me. I personally think that it's just an excuse as she's the third one to scarper in recent years. One hadn't even started the job; she just came round to look at the house and suddenly remembered she was fully booked up. My current cleaner is clearly made of slightly sterner stuff and, after her preliminary visit, decided to take on the challenge but did leave with the words 'It may take me a few weeks to get it all under control'. Oh, the shame!
I do try my best, you see, and struggle with the whole idea of having a cleaner at all, trying to shun my middle class upbringing in a pathetic 40-something attempt at rebellion. I have never been the tidiest of people but at least if you are living alone then you know that you can do something about your mess if you want to. Nowadays I am faced with the twin challenges of Geof and Bryn and clearing up three lots of mess is just beyond my capabilities.
Geof is the worst offender. He is an inveterate hoarder and generates mess like no-one I have ever met before. We have one room in the house which is meant to be a bedroom but which we have optimistically named 'the computer room'. This is meant to be Geof's office but he never works in there on account of it being too full of junk to actually gain entry into it. Instead the 'office' with all its associated paraphernalia of files, folders, paper and plastic wallets moves into the lounge, or onto the dining room table. I just know that one day we are going to be featured in some channel 4 documentary about people who have to crawl through a tiny space in their junk filled home to reach the bed/toilet/kitchen and who weep as they are forced to throw out some old pram wheels and an empty sunny delight bottle.
So you see, losing my cleaner is not just a temporary middle-class hiccup. She was standing between me and almost certain social humiliation, divorce, years of expensive therapy and a possible visit from Kim and Aggie. If you know of a good (or even mediocre) cleaner who likes a challenge please let me have her details.
