Never say never

In my last blog I ranted and raved (a little) about a job I was offered cleaning a particularly horrible house. Oh I was so never doing THAT kind of work again. Well, sometimes you just have to eat your words because life doesn't always turn out as you hope it will.

I did the job, well, I have started it anyway. It's huge. It's vile. It's just the last thing on earth I want to do right now. I have neither the will nor the energy but nevertheless I must battle on because I need the money. And I need the money because my better half is not working right now due to an eye operation. So bills need paying, car needs taxing and food needs to be on the table.

It began on Monday. It was so overwhelming I didn't sleep the night before wondering if I could actually do the job on my own. But I got stuck in and gave it a go, starting on the kitchen. To give you an idea how hard it was, it took an hour just to shift the grease off the cooker hood. Walls were covered in thick mold. Cupboard tops inches deep in dust. Everything liberally caked in thick black gunk. Years of dirt and neglect.

After hours of work, during which I battled through filth that made me gag and encountered several massive spiders - of which I am truly terrified - I finished the kitchen. Today I worked on the lounge. Shelves pulled out revealed yet more thick black mold and cobwebs as thick as blankets. Sofa and chairs moved for the first time in decades unearthing mountains of dirt and detritus. And so now two rooms are clean.

The occupants have problems - health and otherwise - so cleaning has been put on hold till next week when I will deal with the daddy of them all - the worst bathroom I have EVER encountered in twenty years of running my own cleaning business. I fear I will need breathing apparatus to even enter the room such is the stench coming from it.

I feel demoralised and degraded yet strangely satisfied. The doctor visited the householder today and remarked on the cleanliness of the kitchen and lounge and that was a reward in itself. To think that I have helped someone who through no fault of their own has become overwhelmed with the daily chores of life and found themselves unable to cope. One day that may be me - who knows?

Why me?

'Hello. It's (name with held to protect friend but why I should I don't know)Do you still clean houses?'
'Oh. Hi. No not really. Giving it up. Going to be a mega-star author.' (didn't say the last bit - was thinking it)
'I clean a house for someone once a week, but it's really filthy and it needs a good clean. Can you do it?'
'Me? Why don't you do it?'
'It's too much for me?'
'But it's not too much for me, then?'
'Well, it needs a really good clean.'
'What do you do when you go there?'
'Just wash up and wipe the kitchen sink.'
'How long are you there?'
'An hour a day.'
'It takes you an hour to wash up and wipe the sink? How many people live in the house?'
'Two.'
'Do a lot of cooking, do they?'
'No. Anyway. I can't do it. It's hard work. Can you do it?'
'No.'
'Why not?'
'Because if it's too much for you then it's going to be too much for me, too.'
'That's disappointing.'
'Sorry.'
'Are you sure you can't do it?'
'No.'
'Well gotta go.'
'Oh, so you're not staying to chat?'
'Something on the stove.'
'How convenient.'
'Bye.'

Point is: I know the house in question. I've seen cleaner cow sheds. It's abominable. The only thing that would clean the toilet would have to be something nuclear. It absolutely annoys me when people think I'm a) prepared to clean up anything. b) have the strength of an ox. They just see a filthy hole of a house and think what idiot can we get to clean it? And then get on the phone to me. Well. Take Note. Those days are over.

New York and Ironing Boards

I have been a bit lazy recently when it comes to writing my blog. Perhaps it's because not a lot has irritated me of late -- I haven't needed to vent my feelings with a good old rant into cyberspace. But since it appears I have a follower (yaaaa!!!) I will endeavour to pull my proverbial socks up.

Actually, in my defense, I'm not so much lazy as been occupied elsewhere. I've had a rare thing -- a holiday. I visited my favourite city, New York, with my son and husband, where we stayed in a beautiful, old hotel in the trendy Upper West Side. But was it the chic interior that thrilled me? Was it the fact that Mark Twain and other famed people stayed there that made my heart flutter? Perhaps it was the stylish gym that tickled my fancy?

No. It was the fact that our room had...drum roll...an iron and ironing board.

When your luggage arrives on the airport carousel looking as if it's been chucked out the airplane at 35,000 feet -- trust me -- you need an iron. Especially when we were due to be in the audience of the Good Morning America show the next morning. Sod's law, if we looked like three scrunched up packets of cheese and onion crisps, the camera would seek us out.

So, while the rest of my family hung out of the bedroom window ooohing and aaahing over the Big Apple, I was happily bashing away on the ironing board. I guess it's true. You can take the girl out of the cleaning cupboard but you can't take the cleaning cupboard out of the girl.

Emporium

Emporium - such a delicious word. It's a medieval latin word that comes from the Greek word 'emporos' meaning a merchant selling a wide variety of goods. But it has the ability to conjure up a mental image of shelves, stalls and nooks and crannies crammed with rich colour and shiny, sparkly things. The scent of vanilla, cinnamon, lavender and sandalwood permeating the air. A feast for the senses.

It perfectly sums up the Saturday market I attend each month. Today, an ambrosial smell of cinnamon and lavender wafted over from the next stall. Across the way the sweet smell of wood. Stalls crammed with colourful jewellery, cards, paintings, toys, books, delightful knicknacks and vintage clothes.

This is why I want to hang up my Marigolds. This market, these people, fill me with enthusiasm and zeal. And oh, how I do wish for that day when I can cheerfully tell my customers that this Mrs Mop is no more and oh, how I will have to refrain from telling my most trying of customers that I know a perfect place where they can place their mops!

Suddenly today, with new friends and new ideas - anything seems possible.

Cinderella

I now know how Cinderella felt when she was scrubbing those floors and her fat, ugly sisters were preening themselves - thinking they were sooo important. Okay. It's a folk story. And yes, I'm a bit older than she was -- all right, a fair bit older, but I do have nicer shoes! The point is, she might not be real, but her story - being down-trodden and disregarded - mirrors life for a lot of people. And last Monday, it was me.

I had to clean a holiday home. I usually do this for the owners every month and they are never there. But on Monday they were, because they were having their yearly visit to their des res in the country. So I appeared, all jolly and nice - because, to be fair, they are usually quite nice to me. Although we generally only communicate via email.

'What would you like me to do?' I asked (will I ever learn NOT to say that???)

'The floor.'

'What floor?'

'This floor.'

You mean. This crappy, old quarry tiled floor with the patches of concrete where the tiles are missing - floor. The floor you insist on keeping, even though you've modernised this entire 15th century cottage, because for some reason you think it's "authentic" and, by the way, I'll eat my apron if it dates back to the 15th century. (All right. I didn't say any of that!)

'I always wash it,' I said defensively. 'It just never looks any better.'

'Ah! But do you SCRUB it?'

And with that last sweeping question I was presented with a scrubbing brush. Nothing to kneel on. Just me, my bucket, brush and a vast, crappy, old quarry-tiled floor. And while I scrubbed, the lady of the house sat in her laminated-floored lounge while her husband did something everso important on his laptop. I even had to scrub around his feet - would you believe???

With my heart and dignity on the floor I scrubbed for two hours. Realising that as nice as I thought they were, they were putting me in my place. (Don't you forget, you cleaner woman, we are terribly posh, clever people who talk like the Queen and you are here to do our bidding.)

'I've done,' I said. 'I told you it wouldn't look any different.'

'Well. At least I know it's clean,' the lady said. 'Have you time to clean all the windows?'

She must have read my mind because she took one look at the scrubbing brush in my hand and rather nervously said. 'Oh. Perhaps next time, then.'

Cup Cakes & Candy

So happy to see I have a personal mention on the latest flea/craft market poster. Patti's cup cakes - there's no turning back now. Who knows perhaps this is the start of something big and my dream to hang up my Marigolds once and for all will really come true. One thing is for sure I've become totally obsessed with baking cakes. I cannot pass the baking aisle of any supermarket without pouring over all the little jars of amazing toppings for cakes. And colours! So many colours I can make my icing. There's a whole world of edible art out there and I'm ready to embrace it.

Another day, another flea market

After my disasterous attempt at selling at this particular flea market a few weeks ago, I decided to give it another chance and, armed with all the advice from other traders, turned up like a woman on a mission! I laid out the best table I possibly could. It was colourful, varied and, hopefully, appealing. They told me to do something to attract people to my stall and boy, did I do that. With the help of my artistic son, I produced some spectacular cupcakes plus a basket of Welsh cakes. They sold like...well...hotcakes. And as they sold, people bought other stuff, too. So it worked! It was such a good day. I made friends, I made money and I really enjoyed myself. This is sooo much better than cleaning. I spoke to the organizer afterwards and explained that although cup cakes are not strictly 'flea market' was it all right to do it again? She said: 'whatever draws people to your table is fine by me.'

Some of the other traders want the name changed to flea and craft market because there are a lot of craftsmen and artists there and one girl told me my cupcakes are 'edible art' - couldn't have put it better myself! My son has now opened up a flickr account for pictures of my creations and I've booked another table for two weeks time. The funny thing is, the fellow at the next table, who sold slate clocks, asked the organiser if he could do cakes next time and apparently he wasn't the only one. Guess they saw people at my table and decided to copy me. Only one thing for it - I'm going to have to up my game for next time!!!