Aftermath

Heather, my friend who's helping me get a clean house, came round this morning and kicked my butt. I, still in my dressing gown, shamefacedly picked up the undigested catsick with paper towels and dried the dishes she washed for me. But she found no black beetles during a thorough Hoovering and mopping, so that bastard that casually climbed the wall last night, serenely surveyed by the cat, must be an interloper.

Hint: The black beetles are one of the main joists of my kids' Dad's current complaints about my shortcomings, of which there is a long list.

While I was away earlier this month, Heather completely cleaned, sterilised and organised my flat. Arriving frazzled after a nightmare homeward journey (see previous posts), I walked into a gleaming flat of cool reflective surfaces. Heather had tidied everything into neat piles, clearing all the surfaces, washed all the glosswork and mopped the floors, even changed my sheets and folded my underwear in the drawers. She'd left flowers in my sittingroom and bedroom, a box of wine and a chilled glass in the fridge. It was the best welcome home I've had for a long time- thanks so much Heather.