We have a cleaner. Apparently that makes us “upper-middle class” on the social scale. (To be truly posh she would be a “maid” and work for us full time.) She “does” for us on Mondays and Fridays – except that now she has other commitments on a Friday and would we mind if her friend fills in for her?

Of course not. What do we care, as long as the kitchen floor is mopped, the carpets vacuumed and the payment disappears from the kitchen table?

So today, for the first time, “friend” arrived to clean as I was being manly in the front room (removing woodworm-ridden floorboards and replacing them with lovely new ones, accompanied by lots of masculine power tool noises.) “Friend” is barely out of her teens and wears her underwear visibly, as the less hormonally-challenged people do these days.

Being self-consciously middle-aged, I was powerless. I tried to resist but simply lacked the ability.

I dismantled and unblocked the vacuum cleaner for her. Even though it wasn’t blocked, but was merely making a funny noise. Which it does anyway, because it’s one of those trendy cyclone cleaners.

I changed the head on the mop. The old one was perfectly servicable, but it was an opportunity to wield my tool in a powerful way.

Then I got carried away and decided to fix my broken glasses. That was when I superglued my spectacles to the kitchen table.