Spick and Span Only with a Fan
It was my mum who finally pushed me to sort the house out. She was threatening to do it herself. She is now in her mid-seventies and complained bitterly to me the other week that my house was a death trap and about her bad back. To be fair, she had a point, she had just tripped over the hardback copies of the first two stories of Richard Osman's Thursday Murder Club.
Even I have to admit my house is a tip. Everyone would expect clean lines and clear space and white walls with an architect. No cupboards along with spotless surfaces, bar two large green pot plants under the ceiling window. I am the opposite. I have two addictions. Keeping things for a rainy day and books. I can't pass a bookshop without buying a book or two. I've recently discovered that publishers are evil in changing the book covers on different print runs. Just the other day I found three of the same book by the same author on my dining room floor. Each cover was different. How was I meant to know? The adage- never choose a book by its cover. It's true.
I am nearing fifty, and very much a single male. A long time ago I had a wife, but we married young, then she realised her errors of her ways and left me. We had both graduated university with amazing degrees, got well paid jobs, and excitedly got married and bought a house. We both had some very big, wonderful ideas. We also soon found out after a few years that they were very different and incompatible ones. It took a while to work this out but eventually we divorced. Last I heard (looked on Facebook, I check in at least once a month) she was windsurfing in South America. With work and life, I have never quite got around to finding a replacement. I went on a few dates but work always came first. It always has to. It pays the bills and the mortgage. Plus, in the evenings I am always too busy drawing and designing.
The rest of the mess in the house is geologically filled. Receipts, fliers, letters and even envelopes are everywhere. My passport is somewhere. I am useless at cleaning up after myself. Maybe that is why the wife left me? But if you tell me how long ago, I last saw the document, I should be able to find it.
After a couple of beers one evening, I finally plucked up courage. I asked on Facebook if anyone knew of a good cleaner. After several Gifs of polish and several links to memes of Elbow Grease or spurting oven cleaning fluids. A loose friend of a friend suggested a website to look on.
There I was with another beer, at one in the morning on Cleanedhouses4u putting in my details. It was more difficult than I had thought. Running around the house on your own with a tape measure.
It was strange putting my room measurements into the website. I didn't realise I had so much floorspace. They charge per the square foot. With their help I was at least hoping to see some of my floorspace again. It was a franchise system. Each person runs their own business. Once someone got in contact with me, I'd pay them directly. I find that better than setting up a direct debit with an unknown website.
Which brings me to a Monday morning. At nine am prompt a bright and breezy Sherri Barberry appeared as promised. Her email on the Friday afternoon had been genuinely bubbly with excitement for cleaning my house. She was certainly showing more enthusiasm for my house than I could muster sitting in it.
At first glance Sherri was at least ten if not fifteen years younger than me. A slim blonde thing. Her face has aged nicely. Her long blonde hair up in a ponytail, makeup delightfully done. She also smelled delicious. It was a plume that I just wanted to be in. Sherri was also incredibly easy on the eye. What didn't help was that she was wearing a very skimpy strappy top and an equally very short skirt. Her large breasts were prominent and pushing tightly against the fabric and in her heels her long legs went on for miles.
The more I looked at her the more I thought I recognised her. But, however much I took her in, the more I drew a blank. I had another question as she didn't look like someone who was about to get hot and sweaty with a vacuum.
Our first hurdle was the way she sucked in through her cheeks. Making the very same noise that a builder would do when you asked for a quote for extending the kitchen. It did give me a thought. It may have been cheaper in the long term and potentially given me more space for stuff.
"Unfortunately, sir, this will take a while." Sherri continued squeaking like a mouse, sucking air through her cheeks. I followed her as she walked around my house. "Lovely place sir." She nodded and started gently poking one of my higher stacks of books. It wobbled slightly. I held my breath hoping it didn't come tumbling down like a Jenga game.
"Please call me Paul. I will pay." I declared and was instantly annoyed with myself and regretted being so eager. I could have gotten a second or even a third quote. They were bound to be easier and cheaper.
"Excellent Paul, I've got space in my diary. You are lucky, I can start tomorrow morning." She informed me as she was slowly nodding, contemplating the size of her task. "I can do nine-twelve with you. Once I am on top of you, I mean the job, I should then be able to reduce it to an hour a day, then an hour a week?" She twisted herself, her skirt hem lifted and spun as she moved. I again found myself looking down at her legs, imagining I had just got a flash of her impossibly bare buttocks.
"Perfect." I hurriedly brought my vision back to her twinkling blue eyes.
"I will bring over my industrial shredder, vacuum along with my polish and see what we can do."
I nodded and gulped for air. She was going to shred my life. Was I ready for this?
We said our goodbyes and then I went upstairs to my office and started work for the day. Most of it was not doing what I should have. It was spent looking through my social media friends trying to find where I knew Sherri from. I failed in my task. Every profile was about her cleaning business. I have to ask if she worked in my local supermarket at some point. I just knew that I knew her from somewhere.
***
Tuesday morning at bang on nine as promised Sherri enthusiastically rang the doorbell. She was happily grinning wearing blue dungarees, and her hair was mostly hidden behind a large white hairband. I approved of the outfit. It was a far better cleaning attire than a way too short a skirt and very skimpy top. Even with the summer heat she at least looked prepared and ready to clean my house.
I was polite and offered to help carry some stuff in from the van. It was then when she was grunting in the back of her van that I noticed she wasn't wearing a bra under the denim. I helped her lift the shredder out. My eyes were very much distracted.
I hadn't thought about it. I don't, but you expect that she might have been wearing some underwear. Something to protect her from prying eyes. But no, as she bent over the shredder for us both to lift it, I could briefly see everything. No imagination required. Her large bare breasts swung down and fought for freedom against the brass buckle clipped straps.
Standing there I was feeling a little bamboozled, I had to look, there was nowhere else for my eyes to go. I double downed and focused on the task as we headed inside. I then rather selfishly made myself a coffee and left her in my living room making stacks. Stuff that she thought was important and things that were not. I headed up the stairs to my office. I looked around me at the piles of paperwork deep on my desk and shuddered. Years of things just left where they were, "just in case." Would I let her loose in here?
From my upstairs office I could hear through the floor the thuds and slaps of books landing on books and huffing as she lifted then pushed them around. It must have been back breaking work. It proved that Sherri had strength and stamina. She was by the sounds of it getting through her tasks required for the day quicker than I was.
At eleven I popped down; I needed another coffee. My work enthusiasm was sluggish to non-existent. I was shocked. Firstly, the progress. The chaotic mess of my life and room had begun to morph into several large, organised piles. There was plenty more to do, still half was buried. But she had cleared the occasional table and spare chair. Both were now usable. Someone could sit in the living room with me now. They could even put a coffee mug down on a coaster. What was most evident was my green carpet was beginning to show itself once again.
But that wasn't the most shocking thing to have caught my eyes as I scanned the room. I may have to lie. It was the first thing I saw. Sherri was sitting on my sofa and had undone her dungarees straps. Her perfectly large melon-like breasts hung down and were on display. Their size was matched by the dark pink nipples. She didn't even blink or adjust herself to protect her modesty as I politely coughed as I entered.
Sherri looked up at me and smiled. "Hope you don't mind. It's been a little hard work. With summer on the way, I got a little hot, lumping your very heavy books around."
"No...umm, of course not, make yourself at...err...home." I looked towards the open curtains. Yes, the house was set back from the road with a bit of a garden and hedging, but anyone if they looked hard enough could see a naked woman in my living room.
"I'm just too old and rather unfit!" Sherri bounced slightly on the sofa as she giggled. Her full sagging breasts jiggled and continued to sway for a few seconds. I couldn't help but watch as the aftershocks wiggled through, and her nipples jumped and became erect.
