A slut like I or domestic matters

I refer to poor housekeeping not promiscuity. But give me time. I have had to accept that it is impossible for me to clean windows. I just do not know how it is done, without buying special equipment and I can't see that happening-one is, after all, one. Or I. I also accept that I have never actually succeeded in growing a 'growing herb'. I buy them roughly every ten days, I'd say. They wilt immediately, whether starved or drowned and I have to have coriander on my granola so as not to feel profligate. My sisters have to tell me what has to be 'improved' round the house and my mother cannot enter without casting an eye about and pronouncing 'Ah you see, you would need to oil that lock/wash those curtains/buy a 'companion set'. Is that the thing that sits at the fireplace with at least 3 elements no-one knows how to use? What a swizz. Luckily I am tidy and this makes people believe you are clean and organised. Rather like that old trick of looking busy in work by always carrying a piece of paper about.

I have just had a new washing machine installed. Apparently it's 'piano black' which the fella who brought it claims is 'all the rage'. I did that thing I do where I laughed gaily as if he had been joking which he was not. I then told him we were calling it 'chocolate brown' to match the sink my mother thinks I should replace. I have found that workmen come in only two categories; young, tall and sexy or short, grizzled and hilarious. I have got myself mixed up with both kinds in my life. I did say give me time.
The young one was in the Removal business. He once lifted me up briefly and exclaimed 'God, you're really heavy! And I moved a piano today.' He was one of those youths so tall, he walked sort of leaning backwards. Frankie my teeny tiny builder, on the other hand, claimed my house was 'slanty ' and used to pretend to topple forwards upon entry. One day I came home and there had been an unfortunate turn of events with the electricity. I could hear builder laughter from my driveway. Somehow all the water in the house was live and Frankie had had a tremendous shock washing his hands. That sort of thing was always happening to Frankie. He used to play the piano drunk and just keel off the stool. This resulted in a large hole in the wall as he hit the telly on his way down. When I complained of a strange smell coming from my oven and  wood-burning stove, he rang up his very many brothers, who diagnosed 'newness'. I once brought him to the theatre to see Saturday Night Fever and he was practically wearing a dinner suit for the occasion. On came the dancers in skintight red sequinned jumpsuits, which Frankie greatly appreciated and assured me loudly would look good on me. He was very positive that way, when my sister and I  used to get drunk with him and sing, he would propose going 'on the road' together as he thought us so talented. He also told my younger sister, who was heavily pregnant at the time that Angela's Ashes wasn't a bit depressing 'apart from all the wee children dying.'
The dinner party was the most memorable. Frankie had performed a full Renaissance Man act-shot and prepared the pheasant, fished for and pickled the herring, grown and picked the apples. He came round in the morning with his Two Fat Ladies cookbook for a lovely consultation about sauces and I made him a tepid, greasy cappucino from my malfunctioning machine. I may have been permitted to knock up dessert. What I definitely do remember is that after the meal, which was delicious, he squinted across the table and announced 'This was all for you'-I can't think where the other guests were, probably arguing about the cds somewhere, just as I can't think what my response was, bar surprise. This greatly amused friends of mine who were well aware Frankie 'had notions'-funny how you often don't see it yourself. I just thought 'unlucky with men, lucky with workmen'-never thought to combine the two.
I do wish Frankie was still with us-he made me laugh so much and there will never be anyone quite like him. What a character, gone too soon.