Customers and cakes

It doesn't happen very often, trust me, it really doesn't. But once in awhile you meet a rare being. A nice customer. Yesterday I met that customer - two in fact. An elderly couple who asked me to spring clean their enormous seaside front property.

As I hauled my things up the stairs, the lady of the house asked if I wanted a cup of coffee before I started. I suggested it would be nice to have one about 10.30 a.m and at precisely that time she arrived with not just coffee but a china plate on which sat two slices of bara brith plastered with real butter, two Welsh cakes and several chocolate biscuits.

'Sit down dear', she said. 'Take a break.'

Now I'm used to getting steely glares from customers if I so much as stop to breathe. Time is their money. In fact, I half expect some of them to have a whip secreted in their cupboard just in I stop working. I have even been given a mug of coffee and expected to drink it while scrubbing a toilet at the same time. So this was a bit of a shock.

Of course the other thing is: I'm on a diet and have high cholesterol. I welcomed the break but shouldn't I refuse the mouth-watering delights she was waving under my nose? And then I thought how offended she might feel and couldn't I just hoover like a maniac and burn off the extra calories? And as for the trans-fat about to clog up my arteries, well, I just prayed they wouldn't. Not today.

'I can also make you lunch,' the lady suggested.

'Thanks, but I've brought my own,' I replied, thinking of the dry, ceiling-tile, rice cakes sitting in my plastic sandwich box. Yes, you're right Homer Simpson - where is the taste???

An hour later as I polished a sideboard within an inch of its life the lady reappeared. 'Just brought you a few things to put with your lunch,' she smiled, placing a carrier bag in front of me.

I delved inside. Fruit. Good. Apricot yogurt. Good. Two huge chocolate chip cookies. Bad.
Chocolate and cream dessert. Very bad.

'Eat them up,' she said. 'You need the calories.'

Like I need a hole in the head, I thought. But any will power I had left, and believe me there's never much to start with, shot out of the window and headed for the Irish sea. I succumbed.

After the feast. I worked my socks off and cleaned their property to perfection. Not just because it's what I do but because I hoped cleaning like I was on hyper-drive might justify why I'd eaten the contents of my customer's pantry.

But not often do I received such hospitality. Most people treat me with contempt. After all if you clean you must be thick and therefore not worthy of recognition. But just once in awhile you meet some one genuinely nice. And for that, I am grateful.