WHEN I was richer than I am now I turned my back on my proletariat principles for a couple of hours once a week and paid a cleaner, who worked miracles on my dusty old hovel.

Several years later, I became a bit poorer and was sort forced to kiss goodbye to this amazing woman, who restored said hovel each week to a place where people could gather, without fear of disease.

It was a painful break-up. It left me alone with Henry, my Vileda Supermop and Mr Muscle against the world.

And to be honest, they aren't the most stimulating companions; in fact they are more than dull.

Over the last few weeks, Henry, the Mop and Mr Muscle have been neglected as brilliant brainwaves, lighting my two fires, handing out great advice to a lovesick Teen, coping with the attention-seeking sitting tenant (Dad – who yes, is still here) and nurturing the Dog, who is becoming a nervous-Nelly, eat up hours and hours of my time.

Needless to say there just aren’t enough daylight hours to get everything done.

I have to walk the dog in darkness, with just his flashing red Disco Diva collar to light the way, drive copious amounts of miles in between various forest villages and I seem to be the only one in this household who knows how the oven works or in fact knows how the ancient system of barter works (you know, exchange money for foodstuffs) or even knows where the shops are.

It is not funny; particularly on top of it all I have been going about all of this with hair that according to the Teen, looks like Keith Lemon’s, because I haven’t had time to amend my sun, salt and chlorine streaks.

As you know, I have been praying for a wife and now God has answered my prayers.

As Mother was dealing with my hair (which incidentally now looks like Cilla Black’s) she was moaning on and on at how bored she is.

We went through an assortment of Good Ideas, which included volunteering at a hospital, a pottery or art class or play more golf. She wasn’t overly positive.

In the end I was so fed up with her exaggerated sighing that I suggested she cleaned my house.

I waited for the usual diatribe of how she brought up two children, looked after a husband, worked and managed everyday domestic chores without any fuss. But I didn’t get one.

“If I have time on Monday I will come for a couple of hours,” she said.

“Brilliant, that would be amazing.”

I cleaned over the weekend because I knew she would probably ring an emergency service after opening the fridge.

On Monday I walked into my shiny, clean house. She left me an A4 letter, which along with a detailed list of what she had done, she also had dished out domestic advice – do not wash dark jeans with light coloureds, buy limescale remover, paint skirting boards and the Dog is scared of the Hoover.

We went over to Mum’s for dinner last night.

I have put "cleaning job" on her calendar for next Monday, the Monday after that and the following one too.

Well done Mum.

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