London - Hotels and B&Bs never live up to the images on the website, or reviews in the travel pages.
But even worse are property for sale brochures.
I really wonder why estate agents routinely crop out of photos the abandoned mobile home in the corner, the piles of rubber tyres, the tatty lino, plastic shower, and the tiles in the kitchen depicting ears of corn.
Do they really think I’m not going to notice when I get out of my car, having driven for three hours?
Last week, I went to see a farm that looked lovely on the website. It had outbuildings, and land, and a view of the sea. But what a dump! The barns were so full of rubbish, I couldn’t even open the doors. The barbed wire fencing was falling down. Beds were unmade, bathrooms unspeakable, and the kitchen sink full of washing-up. I can never understand why people live in an Area of Outstanding Beauty, but don’t bother to hose down their wheelie bin.
Having viewed many properties over the past year, I’m beginning to wonder at the Great British Public’s lack of hygiene, or even ability to wield a Hoover.
How hard is it to put a few live plants in tubs on a patio, rather than what normally confronts me: desiccated skeletons?
Why does no one sluice their front step with hot soapy water any more? Why are shoes allowed indoors?
I was invited round to dinner by a mom the other night, and she hadn’t even bothered to wipe crumbs off the table!
Why have so many women stopped doing housework (and before anyone posts an abusive comment, we just have to face the fact that men will never, ever learn to clean properly; assign them something else, such as donating their sperm and paying for everything).
My mom had seven children, no automatic washing machine but instead a tub with a wooden mangle, yet still she made the floors shine and windows gleam.
She ironed when we’d all gone to bed. It’s not about having money, it’s about elbow grease.
I think women these days think they are above domestic servitude, but if that’s the case, employ a cleaner. - Daily Mail