The smoking does piss me off. Like quite a lot actually. She's supposed to be here to CLEAN. As in I am supposed to come home and smell the pine or the lemon. Not the fags, surely. But hey whatever, she is a part of the building mafia and I can't confront, I can only appease.

And then there is the fact that there isn't all that much cleaning that's been going in. There are cobwebs on my lamps that my mother noticed this weekend and lord knows my mother isn't a clean freak. Cleaner claimed that I was too messy in the beginning to enable her to do her job properly and I was treated to a series of notes, from downright rude to now sneeringly patronizing "Oh Maccers, you have been doing so WELL recently with the sty tidying."

It's really that she changes my radio station. EVERY FECKING TIME. To some station that is not NPR and she knows that I am a cretin and have not programmed anything by numbers so that every fortnight I must manually scroll down to 93.9 and it annoys me. A lot.

Still it could be worse. My cleaning lady in Curacao used to have parties at my apartment when I was off island. And she would use my cell phone. That's what I call sweet.