It is one of my worst fears to confront people with complaints face to face.
And yet it is another one of my worst fears that I become a person who writes notes like this.
So what does a Weasel do with all these worst fears when there is a festering kitchen humming quietly in the corner of the house?
She screws her courage to the sticking post and has a friendly chat about it to the Indians, that's what.
And they say 'we hired a car and went out at 5.30am on Sunday to sightsee the nicer parts of Southland and we didn't get back til late so we didn't have time to wash up those pots and pans, sorry'.
They also say 'yes, it's bad, but to be fair it's not all our mess'.
So Weasel says 'ah, you know what, I do remember seeing N use that feculent frying pan and that plate on Saturday night as a matter of fact. And the sticky saucer and all that crap over there is definitely D's. Oh, and did you know N moved out on Sunday when you weren't here? Suddenly, like, and didn't tell the letting agents or anything?'
And conversation ensues, and rapport established, and agreements made, with smiles. With N gone, we think, there is a chance we can make this a nicer place to live. Because, frankly, he was not a poster boy for Good Housekeeping and there was an element of futility to the whole cleaning lark.
Then Weasel goes to her room to do her homework and when she emerges at the end of the night to visit the kitchen she finds that the Dish Fairy has been and not only washed everything up but has also wiped down the cooker and cleaned the surfaces too.
She missed the food spillages on the floor and the rice all over the dining table, but yay for the Dish Fairy; the girl done good.