les laveurs de vitres

As I speak, I'm sat cowering in the corner of my bedroom with the blinds drawn as tight as they'll go lest the window cleaner cops an eyefull of me in my Primark pyjama bottoms and a T-shirt from Prague that says "Czech me out!". There aren't many things that make me jumpy in my own house, but the unmistakable and unsolicited rattle and clang of the dreaded ladders being propped up against my wall is sure to do it - it has me scuttling away from all sources of daylight like a startled earwig.

Seriously though, they hold our privacy in the palm of their hand. All our weird little when-no-one-else-is-in-the-house habits (mine's singing along - loudly, with actions  - to karaoke songs from YouTube...) and little quirks are laid out utterly bare for them to see.

You suddenly feel on show, like you have to look busy, interesting and attractive - quite habitually living out your trendy and exciting little life. You give your bedroom a quick once-over, make sure there is nothing incriminating or embarrassing lying about. No knickers that didn't quite make it to the laundry basket, or Twilight soundtracks piled next to your CD player (who, me?).

It's the fact that you don't know when they're coming! You could, quite innocently, be making a quick post-shower naked dash from the bathroom to your bedroom (you might even be stomping an America's Next Top Model-esque "signature walk"... Maybe...) when, suddenly, there's Dave on the ladders, sheepishly waving outside the window.

Anyway, a quick look out of my window has assured me that he has, in fact, gone. So, I can retreat back onto my bed - in full and proud view of the window. Until next time, when we'll go through the whole rigmarole again.

You know what I'm talking about, right? Maybe it's just me...