Ave Maria

I have a cleaner. I know, I know. There are only two adults in the house. And no children. How much mess is it possible for two people to make? But it's not about the mess, exactly; it's more a problem with the distribution of labour.

I don't do any, and as a result I suspected my boyfriend had been considering mutiny. I was under pressure to find a solution that didn't involve getting my hands dirty. A friend suggested throwing money at the problem. And now Maria comes to our house once a week.

Being a son of Iris, my bleach-obsessed mother-in-law-in-waiting, and John, my vacuuming-friendly father-in-law-in-waiting, it's no surprise that my boyfriend is more genetically disposed than I am to domestic duties. When I asked my mother to explain why I never developed natural house-keeping tendencies she said I was too busy making mud pies in the back garden to pay attention when she was giving lessons in ironing, folding and hanging clothes.

The upshot is that the bulk - and by bulk I suppose I mean 100 per cent - of the labour in our house has always been done by my boyfriend. He didn't actually threaten to strike, but I could tell by the way he'd been clattering around the kitchen and wielding the vacuum cleaner aggressively that he'd had enough of this Cinderfella role.

The e-mail from my friend, who lives alone but has had someone cleaning his apartment for ages, was timely. His cleaner was looking for more clients; did we know anyone who would be interested? Did we what? A few days later I arranged to meet Maria on Talbot Street - which, incidentally, is one of my favourite shopping areas in Dublin. You can buy things there that you could never have imagined. That day, for example, I bought a Turby Towel, which you put on your head after you've washed your hair. It's a godsend for people who can never quite get their towels to stay on their heads after a shower. It was a bargain, too, at only €1.95.

So after I'd bought something I didn't know I needed I met the cleaner I knew I needed but felt a bit embarrassed about. We chatted about our backgrounds for a while; then Maria, who is from Romania, asked whether I had children. It was the first hint that she was going to try to clean up more than one aspect of my life. "Is terrible," she said when she learned that I am childless. She looked me up and down with a look that clearly said: "And you so old."

Maria has limited English, so there were a few comfortable silences as we walked towards the bus stop. During one of them I thought it best to tell her that I wasn't sure I had all the equipment she might need to clean the house. She suggested we head for a supermarket. That's when Maria came into her own. I'd suggest that J Cloths might be good for, I don't know, dusting or something, and she'd tut-tut and swap them for what she insisted was a superior brand of cloth, which looked exactly the same to me. She'd also point knowingly at Cillit Bang while I'd wonder aloud if all those chemicals weren't a bit dangerous. Maria just looked at me pityingly and shoved it into the basket. I never knew cleaning required such a strange and multicoloured array of products. I'd spent our weekly karaoke budget already, and we hadn't even gone into the mop-and-bucket shop.

After buying a state-of-the art mop and bucket we got the bus to my house. Maria tackled the kitchen and bathroom with gusto while I got on with some work. By the time my boyfriend came home she was still hard at it, and I could see he was feeling a little bit left out. Do you think she'll do everything, he sighed, the yearning in his voice suggesting Maria might be charitable and leave him with a room to vacuum or some crumbs to wipe. But Maria is so thorough that it looks as if he is going to have to find other ways to amuse himself in his spare time. I've taken to leaving brochures for massage courses around the house. I can only hope.

I didn't enjoy watching Maria work, but part of me felt I might learn something. I certainly did. Cleaning a kitchen means wiping tiles and taking everything out of the fridge and the cupboards. Dust, contrary to what I have always believed, is the same as dirt and needs to be removed. From everything. Unfortunately, I could only watch for a little while, as we had a soiree to attend. Feeling pleased with myself in some new gear, I passed Maria in the hall. Not like that, she said, appalled; you are not going to a party like that. It took me 10 minutes to convince her that my dress was meant to be creased. She was still shaking her head in dismay when I waltzed out of the door. I have a feeling she's going to be very good for me.