So we got a maid. This is big stuff for me. I grew up with one maid, Flora, bless her Zulu iskhathulo, and any other maid as far as I was concerned is pants. Flora carried me on her back in an old afghan when I was two, gave me a couple of good hidings at eight, delivered me hot meals to my teenage lair riddled in angst when I was 16. She was an integral part of my growing up, and the only maid I really wanted was Flora. This was logistically impossible, since she’s retired and resides in Mphophomeni township in the Natal midlands.
Peas: “Can’t we find Flora? I’ll get her up to Joburg, take her shopping, and! She’ll get on something epic with Florence! [Moogs’ maid.]
Ant: “No. You stubborn shit. We’re hiring Pretty. Besides, isn’t Flora, like 80 years old?”
Peas: “Yeah so?”
But The Ant and I were fast losing control of our domicile. The place is always engulfed in stray shoes, dead flowers wilting thirstily in vases, clothes all over chairs, CDs all over the carpet, dishes weighing down the structure that encases the non-existent sink, an eternal bath ring.
We had to take action. So, against my futile protestations, acts of immediate suspicion and downright scepticism, The Ant went and hired someone. Well. The whole day Monday I sat at work biting my nails, wondering whether this stranger would clean us out by the time the day was over, and whether she’d eat my spinach quiche sitting in the fridge.
The weekend motto of “don’t worry about it, the maid is coming on Monday,” wasn’t left unattended to. Drop spaghetti on the floor? Leave it, the maid is coming on Monday. Left an excessive amount of human skin [invisible to the untrained eye] on the sofa? No problem, maid on Monday. Overflowing ashtray? No crockery to eat on? (We started using Tupperware in which to eat our dinners). No clean underwear? (Went Scottish Highlander to work). No problem. For through the muddy haze that is the build-up of sacramental scum in our flat, lies a solution. And her name is Pretty.
I roared home Monday, jumping red lights, to see whether my quiche had been devoured and whether my jewellery had been zyphed – she was a perfect stranger afterall – to find heaven incarnate in the form of an apartment.
The smell of Pine Domestos hit me like a welcome slap to the face. The carpets were spotless, she’d even turned down my sheets. I saw the sink for the first time in months. Underneath the dirt, it appeared that the bath was moulded from pure, white enamel, not unlike the driven snow. And my quiche was still intact. Ecstatically, I raced around the flat, oohing and ahing over what could only be a perfectly scrubbed masterpiece. Pretty had worked her butt off. And I fucking love her.
Can’t find where she put my Clinique soap, but nevertheless, I fucking love her.
Then Third Roommate lit up a smoke.
Ant: What do you mean you’re lighting a smoke in this new flat?
TR: We’ve been smoking here all evening.
Ant: Go and smoke outside!
TR: Fuck that dude, this is not that kind of house.
Ant: Now it is.
TR: Fine! I’ll hang car fresheners around the couch.
I sat mum and made The Ant her French meal. Laced with enough garlic to make even Francois Mitterand blush. (She wants French? I geeve her French.).
PS: We coined a theory on why Zidane lashed out in fury during the World Cup final. The Italian player said something along the lines of: “Your mother sucks knob in the slums of Algiers.” And then he lost it.