I arrive promptly at seven each Friday morning, let myself in the back door. Tom’s usually there, and we often share breakfast. Sometimes bacon and eggs, sometimes cereals, sometimes porridge. I never liked porridge much before, but the way Tom makes it is lovely and creamy. He always decides what we’re having—I just eat whatever he dumps in front of me. And I’ve never brought my own food, not that I’d be able to find anything remotely appetizing in my frugal little kitchen. He must know I’m raiding his fridge every week, but he says nothing. My list of tasks doesn’t vary much—sometimes I’m cleaning bathrooms and toilets, sometimes washing, dusting perhaps, always mopping the kitchen floor, always hoovering. And I’ve even had a go at ironing, practicing on towels and socks before trying my hand at shirts. It’s gone okay so far, no disasters. I’m getting quite good at this domestic goddess routine, tending to be finished before the allotted time. Our agreement says I work for him for seven hours each visit so I should be done by three o’clock, allowing for lunch.
