THE BRAZILIAN

I had planned to write about Mariella tonight. You remember, the voluptuous Brazilian I felt up on the plane to Israel. She announced her return to London with a text: "Hey, Mr Airplane. I'm back in London and, after getting used to Eilat, I'm wondering how to keep warm here...Think I may need one of those flight blankets...Or do you have better ideas?"

I do. And she's coming over tomorrow night when I plan to put them into practice. More on her tomorrow. Meanwhile, I have other Brazilians to wax lyrical about.

We'll call this one Rosa. She's my mum's cleaner, and now she's mine too. From what little I know of her, she's as thick as a Brazil Nut tree, several Brahma short of a six-pack.

First, she calls me at 6pm to say she can't get into my flat - even though she has the keys in her hand. Unuh!

I arrived home and find that she's emptied my dishwasher - normally not a big deal, but this dishwasher wasn't ready to be emptied. It was full of dirty dishes. Our intrepid Brazilian had removed everything, washed it (badly) and then put all my milky cutlery in with my meaty knives and forks.

Had she been here, I would have strung her up. I mean, what kind of a moron takes dirty dishes out of a fucking dishwasher? It's called a dish WASHER for a bloody reason! I couldn't even remember which of my black-handled Ikea knives were for milk and which for meat. Which proves what I've long believed: if you want something done properly, you've got to do it yourself.