The cleaner went off on holiday.
The ex got the cleaner to effectively save our relationship from imploding over cleaning standard differences.
The ex had to break the news to me gently well in advance of the coming Saturday.
This followed by a series of ‘reminders’ (read as ‘threats’) that come what may we WILL be cleaning this weekend.
I need a gradual build up to resign myself to this odious cleaning business.
The ex and I democratically negotiated a division of labour.
One big room + one small room each, 30 mins per room.
So it is a beautiful sunny day, and I have just spent the past 1.5 hours cleaning.
I discovered that ages ago I spilt some mystery liquid behind my side-table that had subsequently congealed with the dust and dirt to produce a nearly unmovable matt coating on the floor that the cleaner had neatly never bothered with.
Then the drawer of the solid wood side table (which is hinged at the bottom, like a flap) dropped neatly on the top of my foot.
I hopped around in pain, screaming silently.
I hope the cleaner comes back soon.
Fuck, I think its broken.