My new cleaner charges bugger all per hour, but has a minimum of 4 hours she charges. My house is a renovation nightmare upstairs (as in, floor boards are up and it’s a no-go zone) so all she needs do is downstairs. There’s not 4 hours worth of work there, which I’ve been sort of ok with as long as she doesn’t charge any extra when the upstairs is in a state of completeness and needing a clean as well. Which might actually happen soon, finally, given the sudden need for a nursery around here within the next 6 or 7 months. The basic tasks seem to be taking less and less time though, and she doesn’t ever seem to think to do extra things, like the cobwebs near the ceiling, or dusting the fans, or wiping down the blinds.
I’ve written that off to thinking she was a few kangaroos short in the top paddock. Today I discovered why.
Yesterday I left her a note letting her know that I’d be leaving suggestions for extra jobs to be done each week, since the current workload was taking less than 2 hours and she is still being paid for 4 hours. So if she wouldn’t mind cleaning my (filthy, filthy) oven as well as the normal cleaning, the gloves and cleaner were waiting for her in the kitchen.
I got home last night to find a sparkly oven. I felt pretty proud. Like I’d won a battle or something. Even though the cleaner’s been doing less than 2 hours work for months and being paid for 4 every week. Who’s the silly one again?
This morning I awoke to a missed call from the cleaner, from late – after 10:30pm. I was well and truly asleep by then, having well and truly lost my ability to keep my eyes open past 8 lately. The message left sounded a little urgent – please ring as soon as possible.
I called her, quite convinced that she was about to sack me. Another cleaner bites the dust. I envisaged her having stewed over the indignity of cleaning burnt on sweet potato and cauliflower cheese for a good hour or two yesterday and deciding she’d had enough. Not so – she had lost some medication and wondered if it had fallen out of her bag at my house.
She rambled on for a while as I searched around for a paper pharmacy bag. She’d gotten quite frantic last night it seems, even calling the police and telling them someone must have climbed over her balcony and stolen her medicine. Woah, that must be some flu or whatever going on over there!
I did find the paper bag and reassured her I would drop it off on the way to work since I was driving past. If only I wasn’t such a busybody. If only I had not looked at what was in the bag before I sailed off to drop it over to her. Then? I wouldn’t know that my cleaner is on the methadone program.