Little Miss Mavis Big Bucks

In the wake of my new found “International Domestic Goddess” status (thanks em) things are beginning to look as bright and sparkly as the hall mirror I polished yesterday. Hold onto your post-its people… she’s goin’ home.

Ok, so technically I’m not going home home. I’m just not going to be HERE anymore.
As I trudged wearily into the kitchen this morning, hoping to grab my cup of coffee and sneak out again without being noticed, just so I could have my morning constitutional, complete with nicotine and caffeine, I was pounced upon with rampant vigour by the Mr and Mrs.

Them: So, we’ve been thinking. And now, this may come as a bit of a shock, but we’ve decided that Mr H here is doing soooo much bettah and really doesn’t need a carer. We’ve been trying so hard to keep you occupied (Nooooo. Really?) but it’s become apparent that it’s quite a silly idea and we think it’s best if you leave on Saturday. It’s nothing personal whatsoever, and we have every intention of paying you for the full 14 days…

I’m not too sure what they said after that – all I had ringing in my ears was ‘leave on Saturday’, ‘paying you for the full 14 days’ and the washing machine beeping to let me know my 73rd load of laundry was ready for collection. Mavis became, at that very second, the luckiest little toilet-scrubbing bitch on the face of the planet and she was loving every second of it! Now I must mention that, as with most things in this line of work, this isn’t set in stone just yet – we’re off to the cardiologist dude today who, if he knows what’s good for him, is going to declare miraculous health, which would in turn negate the necessity of my presence. I’m crossing my fingers and toes but can’t promise on the legs I’m afraid... And that’s for the lovelys in London town of course - Sis on you if you thought I was talking about doing the Geriatric Jig – the man’s heart is dodgy, Christ!