I worked from home today as I’m having my office decorated and a new wi-fi system installed.
Like anyone who, by the sweat of his brow, has earned the right to such luxuries, I have a cleaner, a vision of pulchritude and the subject of more than a few nocturnal reveries, who I pay to come three times a week to do stuff I don’t like doing, like scrub my toilet and clean the oven.
She arrived as usual this morning and began busying herself with the task of degreasing the kitchen sink downpipe, another task that I prefer to outsource. Minutes later a lady estate agent dropped by with two potential female tenants, who are considering renting the place while I’m away for a few weeks.
So there I was, on my patch, bored insensate with a PowerPoint presentation, alone with four vixens, one humming contentedly in the kitchen and three others in the bedroom.
Now I don’t know how many of you have ever looked at the internet before but I have, and I was pretty confident that I knew where this was leading.
Imagine my sense of frustration and anticlimax, then, when the estate agent merely showed the two potential tenants around, thanked me politely and left, while the cleaner just continued cleaning, finished, asked me for her money and went home.
Why would the internet lie to me?