“You’re a tidy girl,” said the prospective owner of my flat as she wandered about inspecting its points. I smirked as she turned away. No-one has ever described me as ‘tidy’ before. My housekeeping skillz are usually described as ‘chaotic’, ‘maid-needing’, and, once, though this extended to my general persona, as entropy. (I thought the last one was a tad harsh but it is nice to be at one with the universe - please, don’t disillusion me by mentioning anything about thermodynamics.) Housekeeping has never been my forte, I may have mentioned this before, and most people know that I am not one of those people you can just drop in on. I need notice so that I can tidy up and so that no-one will ever know just what a complete slob I am. It’s best not to surprise me – I get a bit weird. Still, Prospective Owner hadn’t surprised me; she’d walked in on the tail end of a two day cleaning spree and my flat was tidier than it had been in weeks, possibly longer. It didn’t really take me two days to tidy up, the place wasn’t that bad. It took so long because I could only clean so much after midnight before noise became an issue and then I had to get up early today to finish it off.
And since I was up early and already cleaning I proceeded to do whole bunch of housekeeperly stuff that would make any prospective mother-in-law proud (this has relevance, bear with me, or bare with me, I’m easy, I don’t mind)(oh wait, it doesn’t, never mind). This means that not only have I vacuumed, mopped, dusted (not in this order!), washed up, and laundered (oh clean sheets - blissikins!), folded linen, made the bed (I didn’t know it was meant to look like that either), but I have also baked and cooked, shopped, bought and arranged flowers, and spent some time prettying myself up for no apparent reason – well, clean sheets are a reason. I really feel that if I had to do all this crap everyday then, quite frankly, I’d require a Mr Darcy just to make (most of it redundant but, you know, servants don’t manage themselves) it worth my while. In other words, I’ll take working – it’s a shiteload easier and less tiring. Seriously.
P.S. Tell me that my eyebrows look super-awesome and I’ll love you for life. Really, they do. Damn, I am looking gooooooooooooood!