The Final Forming of a Person's Character Lies In Their Own Hands.

I am trapped in my second floor flat. I am sitting hunched and still, desperately hoping that I won't be discovered. I wish that this would pass, but the sounds from the stairwell outside get louder and closer. I contemplate an escape through the sash window, navigating the climbing frame of drain pipes and windowsills to the yard below and freedom, but know that this would ultimately be folly for one so unsure-footed.

That noise, that terrible noise is just outside the door to my flat now. I become frozen, hoping to fall into some catatonic state that would render me undetectable. 

The noise reaches its crescendo, and then begins to fade. The danger is passing. The vacuum cleaner and its owner are retreating.

We've owned this flat for about four months. On the first Wednesday after we received the keys, I am carrying some boxes up the stairs through the common area. On the landing closest to my flat, I meet a middle aged lady in an apron. She is surrounded by the paraphernalia of cleaning. 

I introduce myself and she responds in kind. She explains that she is the cleaner for the communal areas. She comes once a week, on a Wednesday. She likes the man upstairs but isn't so keen on the couple downstairs. She's sad to hear that the lady who owned the flat before we did has left. I instantly begin to worry about how she is evaluating me. I don't want to be an object of her scorn, like the couple downstairs.

She tells me that she has cleaned this building for 17 years. I express my admiration. I'm genuinely impressed, but I probably overdo it. I'm trying to win her over with exaggerated flattery.

She mentions that she cleans private homes, including the one of the man upstairs. She asks if I would be interested in her cleaning my flat.

I am thrown into a quandary. I have terrible angst about the idea of someone else cleaning my home. Maybe it's my working class upbringing, or maybe it's ideological, feeling uncomfortable at the precedent set by one human being subserviently cleaning up another's filth. 

However, this is not my quandary. I've somehow been able to stave off this angst by employing a succession of once-a-week cleaners for the best part of a decade. Because I'm very, very lazy. And never underestimate the power of laziness. Laziness trumps most things, including integrity, for me, for most of the time. It's ironic that laziness is such a great motivator.

The lady in the apron looks at me expectantly. She wants to clinch a deal to clean my new flat, once a week. She's pitching hard. She tells me that she's very good and thorough.

 

My dilemma is this: I've had the same cleaner, Marichu, for the best part of five years. We have a good relationship, we exchange presents at Christmas and on birthdays. I value her and her hard work. I'm loyal to her, of course I'm not going to just cast her asunder in favour of someone new.

'So what do you think then?' asks Apron Lady.

Why can't I just tell her? It's perfectly reasonable that someone moving house would want to bring along their existing cleaner, it's not a slur or a snub. But I don't want her to tar me with the same brush as the couple downstairs. I don't want her to write me off as some nose-in-the-air snob who has to bring in his own people because the in-house operatives just aren't up to scratch.

I take a deep breath.

'That sounds great. Can we talk about it next week? I've got my hands full just now.'

I've been in hiding every Wednesday ever since.

postscript: I have just hit upon the solution. Next Wednesday, I am going to wait for the sound of the Hoover, take a deep breath, fling open the door, smile at Apron Lady, exchange pleasantries and then broach the subject, explaining that my girlfriend insisted on using another cleaner. I will then roll my eyes and tut in the direction of our flat.