Goodbye, Mrs Mopp

I yield to no man in my admiration of women. I am in awe of them. I love their geography. I love their impenetrable minds. I love their bits. I love everything about them.
But I had to let my cleaning lady go.
Sorry, but in the end, she intimidated me beyond measure. A fine woman, junoesque of stature, hair pulled back tightly on a noble head, a bosom to shipwreck on, and a fierce way with broom and duster. What more could an old scrote on bachelor status ask for? Well, for a start, he could ask for her to put things back where they were before she broomed and dusted them.
Two features characterised our relationship. I was so dominated by her, bless her, that I used to clean the house before she arrived to do me. Secondly, after she had done me, I spent a good hour putting things back where I wanted them, as distinct from where she thought they ought to go.
Listen men (ladies might wish to leave at this point), she was worth every penny I paid her. My house positively glowed after her weekly visit. And she had an arse on her that any man could live off for a week. But why oh why could she never put the candlesticks back the way I had them, side by side on the diagonal at one end of the mantelshelf, but instead separated, one at each end, like lovers who had quarreled? Why did my African ornaments get reshuffled, so that the married Makonde couple were split up, the old man looking up the orifice of a gazelle, and the old woman staring at the bosom of an Angolan maiden, instead of looking at each other and wondering maybe one last time?
And now? The house is a pigsty. Dust and cobwebs filling every corner: it's like Dirty Dick's. The spiders and the harvestmen have had free rein: everything is now connected by gossamer to everything else. There are crustacean graveyards of woodlice everywhere. Even the dust has dust. Miss Haversham would feel right at home.
But at least my African figurines and my candlesticks are happy. Even if their owner is having second thoughts...