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.

Boot Sales

Following my aborted attempt at the Flea Market in which (see previous blogs) I didn't sell very much much but came away with a useful piece of knowledge: How to fight off a would-be attacker. This was courtesy of the ex-bouncer running the next stall who wasn't selling much either and in his boredom decided to teach me some moves. I then decided to try my hand at boot sales.

And I found a whole new genre of customers: The rabid bargain hunters and the I'll-buy-any-piece-of-tat people. The latter was well-evidenced by the lady at the stall next to me, who had an tatty, old piece of rope for sale. 'Found it on the beach,' she giggled when she saw me staring at it with disbelief. But lo and behold, not two minutes later, I saw a woman walking away with the rope swung over her shoulder and my fellow stall holder with a grin on her face.

The rabid bargain hunters won't take any item at face value. If it's £1 they want it for 50p. If it's only 20p they want it for 5p. I've learnt to deal with them. Just price everything a lot higher. As long as they think they are beating you down they are happy.

And then we have 'boot divers' - horrible, professional booters who attack your car and try and buy things off you for peanuts so that they can put it back on their stall for a fat profit. The man on the stall next to me at one boot sale said he once drove into a field and couldn't understand what was wrong with his car, it was jumping all over the place. He looked over his shoulder to see the doors of his estate had been flung open and boot divers were into his stuff before he'd even had the chance to stop!

Anyway, I thoroughly enjoy booting and, save for the fact I've run out of things to sell, would happily do it every week. My home-made Welsh cakes sell like -- hot cakes. People actually come back for more. So I am thinking of branching into baking. I fancy seeing myself on a stall surrounded by cup cakes and bara briths. It may be a while before I hang up my Marigolds but at least I now see light at the end of the tunnel - albeit a very distance glimmer.

Seagulls and old men in fleeces

While I endeavour to hang up my Marigolds and take up a more meaningful profession I must stil earn a living. So, for now, I must remain a cleaner. Cleaning is a hazardous business at times. In fact, just lately, I have been thinking that I should have a bodyguard the size of a mountain with me - y'know, like Beyonce.

I have come to this conclusion due to recent events.

Last week, we were cleaning carpets in a lady's house. Our van was parked - legally. Our equipment not in anyone's way. But oh dear. Along came an old man in his 'fleece' (see previous posts for my hatred of them) waving his walking stick in the air. Ranting. Raving. His face turning purple with rage. He did not like where our van was. He did not like the noise. And despite my calm assurances that we were working as fast as possible he continued yelling at me.

'Please do not shout at me,' I said calmly.

'Shout at you,' he replied. 'I'm not going to shout at you. I'm going to hit you.'

And with that, he raised his stick and was about to strike me.

Well. Can you imagine? I was livid.

I gave him a molten lava look and said 'if you lay one finger on me, I will call the police.'

To which, he spun on his heels and scurried away as fast as his walking stick would take him.

And, if that wasn't enough.

Just this week we had to clean carpets at a house where seagulls were nesting on the roof - it was a bungalow and three, adorable, fluffy chicks were in a nest by the chimney.

'Aaaah,' we said until mum and dad seagulls and aunties, uncles and grandparents seagulls decided to attack us. Everytime we went out to the van they dive bombed us like World War II aircraft.

So, you see. Cleaning is a harzardous profession. Now if you'll excuse me I have to be fitted with an Interceptor body armour system!

The Flea Market

I arrived home after my first foray into the world of retail trade ie my stall at a local flea market (see previous blog when I decided to hang up my Marigolds) to a sea of expectant faces.

'Hiya, mum,' my son said. 'How did it go?'

'Well. I didn't sell anything, but I do know how to break a man's foot.'

Which I think, on reflection, is quite a useful piece of knowledge.

It all started when I arrived at the local flea market to sell my wares. My wares being carefully sourced Fairtrade recycled jewellery and other Fair trade items. All this in a bid to escape the horrors of cleaning for a living and help my fellow man while I'm doing it.

I set up my stall and I must say for a first attempt it was pretty good. My prices were okay, too. The fella at the next stall said so.

There were quite a few stalls. Wooden carvings, herbal concoctions, handmade jewellery and cards and so on. It was really quite colourful. The lady opposite was from Austria. The woman on the right a university lecturer who bottled home made olive oil and herbs in her spare time and the fella on my left who was also selling Fair Trade, only lotions and body creams etc. I thought we rather complmented each other.

Three of us were jokingly called 'flea market virgins' and generally everyone was nice to each other. But it was a hot day and the pros soon concluded everyone had gone to the beach. Who wanted to trail around a stuffy hall looking at paintings, tomato plants and home made vegetarian rissoles when they could be on the beach???

In our boredom the fella next to me shared his Maltesers, which I thought was very nice of him. Then he shared his smokey bacon crisps. And then we got talking. Turned out he used to be a 'bouncer' and knew a few moves. So he taught me how to duck a punch (should the event ever occur) and how to get out of a strangle hold if my attacker came from behind hence and that's how I learnt the 'foot break' move.

So whilst my first step into market trading was a bit of a damp squib. Any would-be-mugger had better watch out. Not a complete disaster after all, then.

Marigolds And Me

I knelt before the white porcelain - well, I say white but that isn't exactly true - my Marigold covered hands each held a Brillo pad and two thoughts flashed through my mind:

1. I should call David Cameron and insist that toilet cleaning is part of the national curriculum because I've faced enough feces-encrusted bogs to know that the great British public haven't a clue how to clean one or perhaps are too bone idle to try.

2. I am so much better than this.

This particular toilet was a lost cause. There was only one thing that would shift the decades old dung stuck to it -- a grenade.

I have a brain. I really do. And I'm on a mission. I'm going to hang up my marigolds. It may not happen overnight. But it's going to happen.

I shall start a stall. I said stall not stool. And I will sell things. Things I like. Things like Fair Trade recycled jewellery made by teenage mothers in Kenya. I will try and help myself while I help others. This is the beginning. Yes, I will fall on my face but in the end I will succeed and then the world will think we should have appreciated that domestic goddess while we had the chance.
Now who's going to clean up our ejectamenta!

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.