Monday, August 15, 2005

Searching for Mrs Mop

So I’m venturing into the unknown world of hiring ‘staff’. This is due to the fact that I will be starting a new job shortly which will involve an even longer commute than I do currently and no chance whatsoever of leaving the office at anything like a reasonable time. This combined with the fact that I have a virtual OCD over cleanliness means that a cleaner is the only way I’ll retain a tidy flat and some level of sanity. Since deciding on this course of action I have been plagued by concerns over how we find a suitable candidate, how much we should pay them and how we avoid coming home to find that all our furniture has been stolen. When I was little my mum hired a brilliant cleaning lady (aren’t they always called Mrs Higgs or something similar?) but she came recommended by a stream of neighbourhood mums and was extra special because she was prepared not only to clean, but also to baby-sit me and my horrifically badly behaved siblings. This time around babysitting is not required but I’ve had to scour the internet for possible options and have a lady from ‘Peachy Clean’ popping round tonight. Apparently this is not an opportunity for me to quiz her on her favourite brand of bleach, or whether or not she cleans under the sofa as well as around it, rather for her to find out if we will be suitable customers. Consequently I have been madly scouring, descaling and scrubbing all weekend… if she runs her finger along any surface it will come away squeaky clean. I’m not entirely sure what she is checking for… maybe whether or not we have vicious dogs, dodgy, messy sex habits or a tendency to store pizza down the back of the armchair. Maybe she’s just planning to case the joint and then get a gang of ram-raiders round. Either way, as long as she looks likely to maintain my meticulously high standards she’s in… and of course, she’d better be wearing a tabard.

Friday, August 12, 2005

Tell me a bit about yourself...

So we’re interviewing at the moment, an amusing way to while away a few hours if nothing else. My boss and I take up the proverbial ‘good cop, bad cop’ roles - he lulls them into a false sense of security and then I swoop in with some really evil mind-benders. It’s true what they say though, you can pretty much make an instant decision at the first handshake, at least I definitely can by the time I’ve accompanied them on the slow ascent to the fifth floor. Yesterday we had the super-slick agency high flyer who used too much lingo and wouldn’t stop asking questions about pensions… the slightly mumsy, middle aged lady who had a menopausal flush and who’s answers went on for hours. There was the South African bombshell (my boss could barely speak when she sashayed in) who thought that working for a holiday company meant that you actually get to travel (-ha!) and the beautiful but extremely French (and extremely petite) Parisienne who we nodded and smiled at for half an hour whilst understanding absolutely nothing that came out of her cupid’s bow of a mouth… Let’s hope today is as amusing and that maybe one of them might even be employable....

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

A bit of a boob

So there I am rushing across the platform at Victoria Station, marching amidst the other rat racers towards the crowded ticket barriers. Everyone has matched their speed to everyone else, only a hairs breadth away from each other but never quite touching. The guy right in front of me picks that precise moment to take a break from his oversized suitcases and stops dead in his tracks. As I skitter into him, uttering what can only be described as a yelp he turns around, his hands held out in front of his chest, poised and ready to fend off the impending attack. I’m still moving forward, propelled by momentum and within a second my breasts are both planted securely in his open hands and I finally grind to a halt. He looks at me, I look at him… we both look down at the offending hands and then back at each other. A flush of crimson floods his neck and he whips his hands away, coughs, awkwardly half smiles and scuttles away into the crowd. I guess that’s what you call a hands-on experience….

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?