Yesterday, I was dumped by my cleaner. By text. The shame. I wouldn’t mind except that she was the only cleaner I’ve ever had that cleaned my house like I would. Yes, she was completely unreliable and, despite the fact that she only came once a fortnight (which was more like once a month by the time she cancelled and rescheduled), I held on to her because, well, cleaning my house just once a month is probably more than I would do left to my own devices. Anyway, it’s all moot now – she’s dumped me. I’m 34 weeks pregnant and cleanerless. As far as middle class problems go, it’s definitely up there.
Understandably, I descended into an anxiety-ridden panic as I considered having to clean my own damn toilet for the first time in a year. What on earth was I going to do? How was I supposed to fit cleaning my own house into a schedule that’s already got me on my knees (in an exhausted kind of way, rather than a naughty kind of way) by 11am?
And then I slapped my entitled, privileged self in the face and stopped whingeing. I picked up the bloody bog brush, changed the beds myself and even mopped the floor. See, I can cope? But it did get me thinking. What other middle-class problems do I elevate to the status of real-life hardships? How entitled am I? How entitled is my family?
Turns out, we’re pretty frickin’ unbearably entitled.
Firstly, my daughter woke up screaming in the middle of the night not so long ago. As every mother would, I raced in fearing I’d find her bleeding from every orifice. Obviously, that wasn’t the case but after almost ten minutes of cuddles, hair stroking and gentle whispers of reassurance she finally was able to tell me what was wrong.
“He’s going to get me,” she said.
“Who is?” I asked.
“The Ocado man.”
I kid you not. I had to leave the room partly because I was laughing so hard I was crying and partly out of true, middle-class, shame. The whole experience left me with a number of soul-searching questions. Who is this child I reared? Is this all my fault? Why can’t she understand that the Ocado Man is a good man – he brings us our oat milk, our quinoa and organic bath goodies? Not to mention the fresh flowers and our Booja-Booja ice-cream and the occasional bottle of Prosecco. What on earth is my daughter’s problem?
I wouldn’t mind if, when asked what she wanted for lunch on the way back from playgroup, she hadn’t responded, “Smoked salmon and green olives please mama.” I mean who on earth does she think brings this stuff to our house? The smoked salmon and green olives fairy? You can’t whinge about the Ocado Man coming to get you but happily stuff your gob with the essential sustenance he brings us. Oh, and heaven forbid I should present her with black olives.
As if THAT wasn’t bad enough, our SONOS system and Spotify conspired to totally screw my life up the other day. I mean, how on earth am I supposed to cope in these conditions? The Small requested a dance party. “No problem,” I said. “What would you like to dance to?” After a short period of consideration, The Small responded that she wanted to dance to Tay-Tay’s “Welcome To New York”.
“Of course,” I responded with real enthusiasm. Honestly, I was just relieved that it wasn’t a request for Let It Go. ‘How handy SONOS is,’ I thought as I searched for Taylor Swift on Spotify and therein lay the rub. Bloody Taylor Swift and her principles on streaming. I actually had to buy the physical CD on Amazon. Thank god for Same Day delivery – it was with me in four hours. I mean, how did we cope without Amazon Same Day? How do people survive outside of the M25?
All I can say is, thank god for Prosecco, the aero-press, my Headspace membership and my postive affirmation MP3s. How on earth would I cope with these hardships without them?
On a side note, if anyone has a GREAT cleaner that works in North West London DM me.