“Anyone fancy a drink after work?” I asked the office one night last week.

“No, I can’t tonight, I’ve got to go home and tidy up.” piped up Tony, one of the less irritating ones in the office.

“Really? Hot date?”

“No, the cleaner is coming in the morning.”

I looked at him for a few seconds, awaiting the second half of that sentence, “…and I have to remove the evidence of a sex and drugs orgy that I had last night”, or “…and she doesn’t like it when I shit the bed and leave it there”, but it never came.

He was actually blowing off the pub, in order to go home and clean, to make his flat more welcoming for the cleaner. I do not understand this. I have never had an actual cleaner (unless you count the lady who used to come round every now and again in my Uni Halls), but I would suspect the first thing they do is?

Perhaps I am wrong? Maybe in reality what they actually do is cast a critical eye over your home, running a finger across shelves and looking under sofas, much like Gillian McKieth does if you give her a lunch box of poo.

I would imagine that you must be exceptionally frightened of your cleaner in order to clean before she arrives. There can be no other reason, surely? Unless you are trying to impress her? I suppose this is also a distinct possibility, as it has been many months since I saw Tony with a lady on his arm, so I would imagine even a 60 year-old arthritic blue-rinsed cleaning lady holds a certain attraction. Probably.

Even if I’m wrong, that is the rumour I am starting.

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