I rush around the house once more, washing, dusting and vacuuming.

Once a week I become this whirling dervish of domesticity. Preparing for her arrival.

I rarely sleep the night before she comes. I lie there, my mind mulling over all the chores I've yet to do.

Sometimes I even get up and do them.

Either way, I'm exhausted come the day.

The house must look respectable when she arrives. The alternative just doesn't bear thinking about.

It doesn't seem to matter how long I toil or how hard I try, she always spots something I've missed. Not a single Wednesday has passed without a disgusted tut, a roll of the eyes and that disdainful gaze.

I look down at the red stain on my sofa and remonstrate myself for my actions last Thursday night.

It was the imagined look of horror on her face that did it. I knew she wouldn't approve of me eating curry from a plate perched on my knee, but that was what made it taste all the sweeter.

I was being naughty, in my own house. I did that a lot these days. Ever since she started coming.

But now I was to be caught.

No amount of scrubbing could shift that stain.

I know that an inappropriately placed cushion won't fool her for a minute, but I move it anyway.

The doorbell sounds the chimes of doom.

A nervous wretch, I go to meet her steely gaze.

Mrs Perkins.

My cleaner.