Yours truly seems to have landed herself in a bit of a spot. In fact, this spot is so ginormous and grotesque it makes all the big okes at Clearasil a little edgy. Allow me to elaborate.
So I arrived at this half-horse town full of the optimism of a paedophile in a playground, looking forward to utter-chilled-out-ness and stuuuufff. (How did we know this was coming?) So it turns out that gramps ain't exactly your average 'nappies and napthalene' old fogey, actually he's not even a gramp, but instead, a rather a spritely chap recovering from a little cardiac mishap, who doesn't really need or want me around. The wife, however, tends to disagree. There are no bed pans, chair lifts or crusty underpants with which to contend, and he is completely in charge of his own breakfast, lunch and pill cocktail every so often. In all honesty, i'm a little surplus to requirement.
Now this is where it starts to get fun. Instead of me doing the carerly thing and hanging around should he need me for anything (which we've already established he doesn't), wiping a sink here and preparing a meal there, they are terribly concerned that i'll be bored stiff. The conversation went a little something like this:
Them: I rather hope you won't be terrahbly booored.
Me (somewhat brightly): Um no, i'm sure i'll be alright thanks.
Them: Well here's a monster pile of killer laundry which needs ironing (I made up the scary adjectives), and the stairs could do with a vacuum, oh and the 5972 living rooms are in need of a dust - do make sure you do them thoroughly - and our room could also do with a once over. Oh could you iron all the sheets and pillow cases in the entire village as well? If it's not much trouble. Oh and one last thing, we've got a little test (heehee) to check how well you clean but we won't tell you what it is until you either pass or fail.
Me: Are you kidding me? Are you seriously goddam f*cking KIDDING me?!?!? (So i thought it, who cares.)
What i actually said was: SURE (big beam and all that crap.)
Well paint me brown and call me Mavis. DUMBASS - i don't know what came over me, i really don't. Maybe it was the fresh air and the Pimm's. Maybe i was just being a really f*cking stupid MORON. Either way, none of the above really falls under my job description - what they really need is a bloody Polish maid to live in and take care of the housework for a week or two.
I seriously couldn't be less charmed than if i multiplied into 3 sisters and went on a demon slaying expedition.
Now if you'll please excuse me, i'm off to inject myself with a pleasant mix of crack and Domestos and then burn myself on the iron for the umpteeth f*cking time today. F*ck f*ck f*ck. F*ck.
Oh by the way, they're actually really nice people. No, really.
23 August 2006
Mavis The Marvellous.
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4 comments:
It's so sad that you had to go all that way to be a domestic, when you could have stayed right here in ZA. Good help is so hard to find, you know.
Tragic really, isn't it? I must say, the rather cool thing is, these bloody poms have a wipe for EVERY imginable surface - oven, sink, floor, windowlene vibe. You get the picture. It's agonising that i know this or even care. Fuck, maybe i'll just come home and enza mushe mushe. You need a 'domestic assistant'? (need to be sooooo bloody pc in sa these days!!)
This is the best invention! Kit, I've missed your writing. Lush would be burning if they could see the master at work once again.
Cannot believe that you're scrubbing away (probably as I type!). Hilarious! Well, on the plus side you can write 'international domestic goddess' on your CV. Should really help in the cut-throat world of advertising.
Please accept a curteous bow from the International Domestic Goddess Extraordinaire, with my compliments.
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