Confessions of an amateur housecleaner

Some home truths probably shouldn’t be revealed. But here I go anyway …

My position as primary housecleaner at our place is a voluntary one. I don’t have to do it. I could just let the mess pile up until it explodes through the roof, sending odd socks and damp tissues and toast crumbs and cat hair out across the neighbourhood. But who’d clean that up? Me. Because, as I said, I am the tidy-upperer round our way.

There are perks, of course. Sometimes I get to keep the coins I find down the back of the couch. Back in the days before kiddies roamed our house and shattered our sleep patterns, I was even paid in sexual favours. My partner would bribe me. Give the house a vacuum and there might be time for a quickie; that sort of thing. But not any more. Dream on. So I’m paid off with loose change and all the bobby pins I can carry.

And oh my god, the bobby pins. Where do they come from? Who sent them? And why?! Are they called bobby pins because they bob up in absolutely every part of the house? I don’t know. I’m just the cleaner. But if ever there’s a world shortage of bobby pins, I’m going to make a fortune. The bobby pins at our place don’t just lie around. They multiply. Late at night, when nobody’s looking, two bobbies get together and make another bobby. By morning, they’re everywhere. I can spend an entire day picking up newborn bobby pins, sighing as each one goes kahping-ing up into their little vacuum-cleaner heaven. The next day, of course, there’s a whole new generation waiting for me in absolutely every part of the house.

I’m thinking of starting up a support group called Partners of People Who Don’t Shut Drawers. My partner, bless her cotton socks (undies, singlets, stockings etc), actually gets annoyed with me if I tidy up her cascading chest of drawers. “Fine,” she frowns, “go ahead and close all my drawers. I’ll only open them again.” Ah yes, but for a brief moment there, the drawers were closed and the chest of drawers actually resembled a piece of furniture as opposed to a piece of space junk.

If my beloved wasn’t gainfully employed she could star in one of those police shows where they flash search warrants at drowsy residents, barge in and go rummaging through every nook and cranny in the house. I always look at the mess these TV cops make and think ‘That’s nothing! You should see my place after a certain someone has been trying to find her favourite bra while running late for work.’

Another problem area for this humble housecleaner is the toilet-roll holder. It’s nearly always devoid of actual toilet paper. It’s uncanny. One minute there’s a fresh roll sitting there and the next minute, gone – just an empty cardboard cylinder twirling in the breeze. I recently wrote a note on one of these tell-tale tubes. It said: ‘PLEASE replace empty dunny rolls. If you don’t, I will have to kill you.’ I was joking, of course. I know nobody pays any attention to our housecleaner.