My husband asked me to show the nanny how to clean the filter in the tumble dryer. “It’s supposed to be emptied every time it’s used – I don’t think she’s ever done it.”
For some reason remonstrating with the domestics has become my responsibility. I’m not quite certain how this happened, but any dirty work is left to me. I’m not terribly good at it. I’m so desperately grateful that anyone would voluntarily spend five days a week with my pygmy terrorists that I tend to mumble my way apologetically through any ticking off, then send her home early with the Sauvignon Blanc I was saving for supper.
“Of course, darling, I’ll have a word with her.”
There was just the teeniest problem – I had absolutely no clue how to clean the filter in the tumble dryer. I knew it needed doing and I did mean to ask where the bloody thing was, but by the time I thought about it again we’d had the machine for nearly a year and I couldn’t bring myself to confess to my slatternly ways.
I would have to brazen it out.
I collared the nanny soon after she arrived. “Um, I’ve been meaning to mention it… the er…. the tumble drier… it’s the filter, you see… it needs cleaning out each time you use it. Sorry.”
Impressive, aren’t I? Decisive. Confident. A real leader of men.
“No problem.” She said. “Would you mind just showing me which bit it is?”
“Oh gosh, you’ll find it!” I said breezily, sailing off to work in a fog of guilty conscience.
And she did.
I’ll have to spy on her next time she’s doing the washing, to figure out where the filter is. On second thoughts, I still don’t know how to empty the vacuum cleaner, and I seem to have got away with that one.