When I was working, one of the things that made the daily commute and the office politics bearable was being able to afford a cleaner. She came to us for four hours a week on a Monday morning, which was ideal timing to deal with the hovel created by our three kids over the weekend. By the time I arrived home on Monday evening, the place was immaculate – fora few moments, anyway, before the kids went on the rampage and turned back the clock to the Pre-Clean Era.
Unfortunately when I lost my job, that particular perk of the middle classes was one of the many sacrifices we had to make. The choice was simple: drink less beer or get the Dyson manual out. I’m writing this on my laptop, in my local, with a pint of Doombar by my side. You get the picture. Continue reading
