IF

'IF' is a conditional clause. It implies something will happen if something else happens first. 'When' implies certainty. Doctors who were worried about the bird flu coming to Britain said it wasn't a matter of 'if' but 'when.'

This week the word IF has been uttered to me -- twice.

The first time was after I'd cleaned a huge house with five bathrooms and I mean CLEANED. Cobwebs as thick as candy floss were removed from behind furniture that hadn't been moved in months -- years, even. Bathrooms were scrubbed until they glistened. I even polished the blinking doorbells! I didn't take a break once and worked myself into exhaustion doing it in 4 hours for which I charged £10 per hour (well below going rate for S/E cleaners!) Yes. Spring cleaned to perfection a massive house for just £40. Am I crazy???

I was supposed to clean this house every month until I gave them the bill and then, after their jaw had hit the Axminster, they prised the money out of their purse and said: 'Um. Well. Er. We'll call you IF we need you again.'

Translation: You are a stupid cleaner and I'm not paying £10 an hour even though I'm mega rich, want my house cleaned and can easily afford it. Because only people with the IQ of a kettle clean for a living and I really expected you to do it for about £4 or £5 an hour, if that.

Yes, of course. Us stupid, brain dead cleaners that keep this world from being buried under a ton of detritus don't need money. Bread and water will do. And no, we won't be needing a house. Give us an old tarpaulin. Car. Clothes. Holiday. Nah, we don't need it. We just want to go to your fabulously big house and work for you for nothing because we are your slaves.

Well, here's another IF.

IF the sun explodes. IF the stars fall out of the sky. IF the U.K. ever wins Eurovision again ( and based on this years performance the sun is more likely to explode) then you can have my superior cleaning skills.

Because Mr and Mrs five bathroom house, all those things are going to have to happen before I ever clean for you again!

The Hairdresser

Where do you go when life gets too much? When work gets you down. When bills fall through the letter box in biblical proportions. When people irritate you. When everything goes wrong and life sucks.

A place of worship -- maybe. A walk in the forest -- possibly. A visit to a therapist -- perhaps.

A trip to the hairdresser -- definitely.

A new hairdo has the ability to lift spirits faster than the elevator in the Burj , the world's tallest tower (10 metres a second. 124 floors in 56 seconds -- get the point?)

Because no matter what you're wearing (even a baggy fleece!) if your hair is nice you feel good with a capital G. And if you, like me, are blessed with a hairdresser who has more to say than 'are you going anywhere tonight?' a couple of hours in the hairdressers (even if it has a banal name like 'Hair Daze' 'Split Enz' 'or my own personal favourite 'Get the Hell out of Hair' - which btw mine doesn't) can do you more good than a bucketful of Prozac.

Of course I'm doubly blessed cos my hairdresser also happens to have a wicked sense of humour.

I spend most of the time with tears of laughter trickling down my face. Which goes someway to make up for the fact that when I look in the hairdressers mirror my mother is definitely now staring back at me. Still. With a nice young hair style in a nice young colour I look years younger -- especially if I walk with my back to everyone.

So, thank you, hairdresser -- you know who you are -- you have restored my sanity this week.

Grrrrr....

Today I was conned and I'm mad. Hopping, seething, punch-the-wall kind of mad.

A man telephoned me and said in a scruffy, regional accent 'I want me carpets cleaned, luv. Can ya give us a quote and please bear in mind I'm just a skint pensioner.'

'How big are your rooms?' I asked.

'Oh, just average size. There's two of 'em and can you just clean me hall on the way out. It ain't big. Just, y'know. Average size. And the missus says could you run over the mat in the utility room on ya way out. Now be kind. Remember I'm a skint pensioner. I'll leave ya the key. You can do em when I'm gone. It's a holiday home ya see.'

Okay. That last bit should have rang warning bells. Only it didn't cos lots of people have holiday homes here and they are all shapes and sizes.

'Tell you what, luv.,' he continued. 'Tell us the price and I'll leave ya the cash.'

Ah. Nice man, I thought. No probs with payment. Yeah this should be all right.

I gave the geezer a quote based on the information he gave me, thinking I was getting a fair deal and so was he. Besides which I google earthed the house and it didn't look that big. (By the way do not trust google earth! It lies)

So off me and my husband went. Uh-oh. Wrought iron gates. Long drive. House the size of the Albert Hall. And the two 'average' size rooms were the size of frigging tennis courts. Skint pensioner my **** This was his second home. What was the size of the other one? And not one but two boats outside the house. SKINT PENSIONER!!! I don't think so.

Gut reaction was to walk away. Stuff the money. But then how ever small it was, we needed it. So should we just do some of it? That's the trouble you see. We just can't help but do a proper job however much we've been conned. So we did it. But I did leave a note just to let him know I knew he conned me.

When I join OAP land. Let me say here and now that, apart from never wearing green or beige (see previous blogs) I will never, ever, EVER play the old age pensioner card to get something on the cheap.

And now I'm going -- I have a wall to punch.

The Journey

I'm sitting on the train at the station waiting for it to move off. A little girl, about ten-years-old, is standing in the aisle, crying. People crane their necks and stare at her. No one asks. I see a woman on the platform peering at the girl through the glass window, smiling. My mind works overtime. Has she put the child on the train? Is the poor kid being sent to live with an austere aunt because her mother is dying of some incurable disease? Is she being sent to boarding school? The child is now almost hysterical. People still look. No one moves. I am about to get up when I clock what's going on. The mother has stepped off the train and can't get back on cos the door's jammed. I sigh. It's okay. This is a small, country station of two platforms. The train won't go off without her. The station manager soon sorts it out and the child flings herself at her mother.

I'm on my way for what I like to call my 'city fix' which means I've spent too long in the countryside and my brain now resembles a tin of Harry Ramsden's chip shop mushy peas. I need stimulation - fast. I like taking the train. It offers opportunities to observe people and wonder who they are and where they are going. Already my brain is percolating.

This particular 'city fix' is a trip to Birmingham to see New Zealand music/comedy duo 'The Flight of the Conchords' I feel a tingle of excitement. I've been too long amongst the sheep and fields.

The woman sitting in front of me is in her 60s and she's tap, tapping on her laptop. Across the aisle another woman carries a large red and cream holdall. She looks very smart. I wonder where she's going.

The refreshment man pushes his trolley into view. The mother with the sobbing child buys crisps and coke to placate her daughter, who is still sniffling. The lady with the red and cream holdall buys a tuna sandwich - she insists on brown bread - and a bottle of water. The refreshment man smells of expensive cologne, his scent fills the carriage. I'm impressed (it doesn't take much!)

The woman puts in her ear plugs and gazes out of the window. I feel no such urge to gaze. I know out there will be fields and sheep and perhaps cows. I'm desperate for civilization. Cluttered rows of houses and gardens. Some neat and well cared for, others a jumble of weeds and bramble with perhaps an old, wavey plastic washing line running through them. Behind those doors and gardens are people. People with different lives, different stories to tell. I hunger for that.

CAERSWS. NEWTOWN. WELSHPOOL. Fields. Fields. Fields. Some green. Others covered in white trips of polythene to protect what grows beneath. Some full of yellow rapeseed.

The train hits SHREWSBURY and the fields begin to disappear. Lots of people get on, grabbing what few seats remain (it's only a two carriage train). People and suitcases are pushed past me. A teenage boy drags his backpack. The music coming from his Ipod is so loud. I think he'll be sorry when he's in his 60s and needs a hearing aid. I don't supposed he gives a fig about being 60. He probably think he'll be young forever - didn't I? Although the area around the station looks post apocalyptic with rust and rumble, the brick walls now have painted panels. It looks like Banksy has paid a visit. I wonder what the men that toiled over that brickwork would make of it all.

WELLINGTON. People on. the platforms are beginning to look different. Citified as opposed to countrified. TELFORD. I see housing estates and gardens and shops like Asda and Tesco. People. Lots of people.

The young bloke behind me is talking into his phone. He's bragging about the five grand extra he got at work. I wonder why people feel the need to broadcast their personal stuff to everyone.
I want to lean over my seat and say, 'look, mate. It's only five grand. If it was five million or even fifty grand it would be worth letting the entire Arriva train know about it.'

I now want to go to the loo but I hate train toilets. They are old and smelly and I'm always worried the door hasn't locked properly and some one will come along and punch the button and I'll be there in mid-wee for everyone to see. And if I do feel it's locked I worry it won't open again. I think I'll wait.

The trains chugs purposefully into WOLVERHAMPTON. I see streets of terraced houses and canals with people fishing. And then all too soon we approach BIRMINGHAM. Crumbling buildings. Abandoned warehouses. Graffiti. Clumps of purple Buddliea beside the tracks. Weeds growing through concrete. Dirty brickwork and dusty walls. Diesel fumes.

I step off the train and breathe in the toxic air and think 'Aah. Wonderful!'