A friend of mine just moved to the area and wanted a housecleaner. I said I would ask our cleaner, Ivana, if she was taking on new clients.
Ivana is from Poland and very hard working. She lives here with her 14-year-old daughter; they have a flat in the center of town above a funeral home.
She is worth her weight in gold. She actually picks up things when she dusts, instead of going around them. I can tell when she has vacuumed, the large worn Duresta sofa, which can easily accomodate 10, is slightly out of place.
She is not much on conversation. Her English is limited. The only time she makes a point to say something to me is when she wants a day off.
This is how our last conversation went:
Me: "A friend of mine is looking for a cleaner, are you taking on new customers?"
Ivana: "No, no, I can’t. I moving."
Me: (in shock, what? I try to compose myself...)
“You’re moving? When are you moving?”
Ivana: “Tuesday”.
Me: “This Tuesday?”
(oh crap, it's slowly dawning on me that all that time I spent explaining my system for the girls’ clothes – bottoms in the bottom drawer, tops in top drawer, Emily, Alexandra and HM, in that order, was all for naught.)
Ivana: “Yes”.
Me: (still trying to digest the news, and slightly annoyed that she has given me very little notice, in fact if I hadn’t brought up this thing about my friend needing a cleaner she may never have said anything.)
“Where are you moving to?”
Ivana: “Across the road. Tired of living above dead people.”
Photo credit: onion patch
