My husband has booked a cleaner. It seems the rising tide of dog hair and dust (the levels of which ebb and flow, depending on my proximity to a deadline) have defeated him, and so he has hired help.
Domestic decisions of this nature – finding babysitters, interviewing nannies, calling the window cleaner – sit squarely in my domain, after two years back to back maternity leave established my status quo as Organiser of the Domestics. The fact that my husband has gone rogue is a strong indication of his desperation to live in a house that smells more Alpine Fresh than Essence de Famille. We have three children and a spaniel: I admire his optimism.
For months he has been hinting at having a cleaner. I told him I couldn’t find anyone – that the good ones were all booked, and the bad ones were all thieves. I suspect it was the challenge of proving me wrong that spurred him into action.
The truth of the matter is that I never wanted a cleaner. It’s not that I like living in a dirty house, or that I’m territorial about cleaning (are there people like that?) it’s simply that I find managing domestic staff absurdly difficult. Not only does one have to prepare for them (I have spent this morning tidying the children’s rooms, sweeping the contents of the kitchen surfaces into the dishwasher, and checking our bedroom is free from anything gossip-worthy) but one has to task them. There are women who thrive on this (“The kitchen, today, I think, Ange, and the slatted blind needs a jolly good clean too.”) but I am not one of them.
I am not a stranger to managing people. I have been a police sergeant and an inspector, run numerous teams and chaired countless meetings. I can give direction, motivate, and admonish appropriately. Yet move this working relationship to my home – which is of course now also my office – and my direct and unemotional leadership style morphs to something midway between useless and apologetic. “Oh, I’m so sorry, could you just… I mean, would it be possible… oh no, really it’s fine, I’ll do the oven myself.”
I could dwell on the reasons for this, and no doubt find some explanatory contrast between my identity at home, versus in the workplace, but I have no time to do so now. The cleaner will be here in ten minutes, and I still need to scrub the loo.