I have a confession to make. And it’s one I’ve been very reluctant to come right out and say. Because I feel people may judge me for it.
I haven’t been eating cupcakes on the toilet at night (recently, anyway) or having a pang in my knickers whenever I think about Boris Johnson. It’s much worse than that.
My confession is this. Every Thursday I pay some of my well-earned money for some complete strangers to enter my home and clean up mine and my boyfriend’s mess. Once a week I go to work in the morning, safe in the knowledge that when I come back, the carpets will be vacuumed, the toilet and bathroom cleaned and any residual dishes that have been left in the sink will be washed.
And now, after an unfortunate event with said cleaners of which I have wanted to publicly moan about, I realise how ashamed I am of of this. I’m a 21st century social network addict, moronically moaning about my first world problems via the mediums of Facebook and Twitter on a regular basis. However, this time I felt the need to hold myself back because I’d probably rather admit to bringing in the cleaners in the mafia sense than announce that I actually have to pay someone to help keep my place habitable. And to publicly complain about the problems that arise from this would just be wanky to the highest sense.