Cleaning Tips

My respect for plumbers knows few limits. Firstly because my strike record at actual plumbing is poor but secondly, and I give you fair warning that this sentence will not end nicely, because of crud. Plumbers have to have a high resistance to the side effects of crud. Actually that shouldn't be a plural. There is only one side-effect. When you have had a lot of crud on you it is disturbing and you tend to recall the experience when you least want to - working your way down the menu at a new restaurant for instance. A crud covering is not something one should relive.

People of the parish should be very grateful that I am crudophobic. You damn sure want to know that it has all gone by the 'We break this bread' point of the service.

Two nights ago the toilet seat half broke. I meant to write a note to the cleaners saying to be careful but I forgot and returned home yesterday to the sight of a toilet seat placed vertically and, in so far as it can be this, sorrowfully against the wall. Both its plastic fixings had broken.

I received my instructions from the visual merchandising department, a sub-section of management, which failed to find any merit in the argument that the said toilet was in the en suite and few people would see it and was told to fix it or replace it.

On discovering its unfixability, I was informed I had to get a tasteful and practical replacement. Further advice as to what constituted tasteful and practical would be provided once I had purchased same.

Not wanting to have the word loser attached to me for any longer than necessary I tracked down, in the first store I tried, an identical loo seat to the broken one, brought it home and fitted it before the quality control inspector got home from work. Then I took her out for a meal. She hasn't seen it yet. I'll let you know if it passes muster.

You need to know that within the expression 'fitted it' is the unfitting of the bolts of the broken seat. Herein lay crud in epic quantities; the crud of a million misdirected pees by, probably, myself occasionally and, get this, previous occupants of the house.

We keep our loos clean and also have cleaners to clean after we've cleaned (heaven forefend that the cleaners would find a dirty toilet to clean) but crud finds its way into the world's uncleanable places. I hate unscrewing crud-covered nuts and bolts.

Other people's crud. It couldn't be my day job.

Now wash your hands. You'll want to.

Practical Things

I am not very practical. Furthermore, I do not particularly enjoy practical tasks unless they are incredibly easy - put out chairs, unlock doors, that sort of thing. Around the house I do the ironing, cooking, washing, shopping, recycling and bins - all very straightforward although I fear I may have just shrunk my only John Smedley which depresses me no end. I bleach a mean toilet.

Liz does the cleaning because she has higher standards than me and is simply better at it anyway. I'm not good at fiddly corners. I sneeze at the first sight of dust. I have no completer-finisher skills.

Over the years I have taken the view that I would rather do a little extra writing work to earn a bit more money in order to afford to pay someone to decorate or do DIY. It is difficult finding reliable people though. I am about to contact my third builder after two kept me waiting for a year each. It's just a pointing and brick-laying job.

I have just agreed to pay some people to come and do the autumn pruning and clear up my miniscule garden. I don't like gardening unless I can design the garden myself and make it pretty Zen (thus empty of maintenance-requiring shrubs). If one day I move into a Rectory (please Lord, no) I will do gardening in work time and not on my day off.

So can someone please explain the feeling of guilt. I am helping someone else to be employed. I am spending more time doing what I love. My parents had a regular supply of gardeners and paid help. Is it that I want to be seen to be good at everything and coping without help?

Come here BB; we need to talk.

Advanced DIY

I have decided to update my DIY theory. The short job I thought I had to do (replace the battery in the front door bell) did not, of course, make the front door bell function. Why did I think it would?

A bit of fiddling around with the pusher unit showed it to be completely jammed so we decided to buy a new system. We bought it from 'the laminated book of dreams' (Bill Bailey on Argos) for £39.99. This system has two sounder units which you plug into a socket so you can take a bell round the house with you. Our three-story house (sorry bit show-offy) made hearing the bell awkward until now.

It only took five minutes to fit the new system and make it work, which kind of blows my original DIY theory out of the water, but compared to the cost of a battery at £1.99 it was a bit pricey. So, the advanced theory:

When estimating the length of any DIY task double the time you thought of and measure in the next unit upwards.

or

Take the cost you imagined the job would come to, double it and add a nought.

This works for me.

Breakfast, staff meeting, book shop, gym, Tescos, cooking, pastoral visit, ironing, leadership team. Laters.

Six Music playing a White Stripes tune. 'I'm thinking about the doorbell when they gonna ring it; when they gonna ring it'. How touching. Anyone else out there think they are the biggest load of over-rated, over-hyped talentless doo-doos in the known world?