Katrina the Cleaner

I'll admit I was worried. Very worried. In an uncharactaristic fit of feeling completely intimidated, I handed over my keys to a Polish stranger, who demanded I bought "Cif Yellow", told me my flat was "very dirty" and that she would start on Friday. I had very little input into this decision. Other than the recommendation from a friend of a friend, I knew absolutely nothing about the woman to whom I'd just given total access to my property.

And yet, coming home yesterday evening, I was greeted by the smell of chemical lemons (is there a finer smell in the universe?) and bits of dirt which I'd come to think of as fixtures and fittings were completely gone. London's a hard-water area, meaning that limescale is pretty much impossible to remove. But my cleaner has achieved the impossible. My flat is so clean, I could eat dinner off the floor. In fact, I think I might. I can't be arsed to wash up.

Me and the cleaner - it could be love.