A visit from the bank manager prompts an urgent cleaning spree.
Last week our entire household succumbed to the bug that was going around, and I had let the housework slide.
Tinkerbell had learnt to crawl but not the meaning of “no”. Hence the contents of every cupboard were strewn across the floor.
Our house was a pig-sty.
Tinkerbell had finally gone down for a nap and I had a chance to clean the house properly, but what I really wanted to do was finish reading the novel I’d started weeks ago.
Just as I was nicely ensconced in an alternative universe, Hubby rang.
“The bank manager is coming in two hours.”
I sprang to my feet in panic. Although our bank manager is lovely, I didn’t want him to see my house in this state.
I have a theory about bank managers. You need to convince them that you are in control of things. And right now, all evidence suggested that I should bulldoze the lot and start again.
I grabbed the vacuum cleaner and completed a lap in a time that would make Usain Bolt proud. (I may have vacuumed up some Lego, but I won’t tell if you don’t.) Cupboard contents were unceremoniously shoved back in.
Should I cook a cake? Or will that change his perception of me from “savvy business owner” to “good little woman in the kitchen”?
But my newly visible floor highlighted the invisibility of my kitchen bench. Dishes were piled perilously high, obscuring every surface. I had no room to make a cake. I needed to focus on the quick and superficial.
Do I put out old but clean placemats or new ones? (See bank manager theory above.)
Our master bedroom is visible from the kitchen table. Should I make the bed or just pull down the blind and close the door?
No wait, there’s a higher priority: The bathroom and toilet. He’s never used them before, but what if this is the first time? I don my gloves as I mentally run through the list of what else I must do.
At least I don’t have to tidy the laundry or remove the overflowing bin from beside the back door. He’s visited us enough to know that our front entrance is safer. (Unlike the many uninitiated salesmen who attempt to scramble over mountains of dairy clothes, rubbish, firewood and gumboots.)
I glanced out the window at our unkempt lawn. Maybe it will inspire his confidence in our ability to grow knee-high grass?
Finally I’m about to jump in the shower to make myself presentable when Tinkerbell wakes up crying. Immediately, the phone rings. Hubby will be late home because the pump broke.
Just as I start changing Tinkerbell’s dirty nappy, there’s a knock on the door. “Hello?” calls our bank manager. I gulp. I wonder what interest rate I can get on borrowed time?