I like the cleaning lady. She’s nice. She keeps our bathrooms clean, and always has a nod and a greeting for me whenever we meet.
There is, however, something quite disturbing about the cleaning lady — in fact, about every cleaning lady I’ve yet to encounter here.
There’s no advance warning.
No knock on the door, no Shitsurei shimasu to announce she will soon be entering the men’s room — she just charges right in and starts cleaning. And nobody seems to mind.
The thing is, I mind. My John Thomas minds, as it has now been spied by the cleaning lady on more than one occasion. Call me crazy, but displaying my genitalia to the nice woman I exchange pleasantries with in the hallway just isn’t my idea of a good time.
I do appreciate the cleaning lady. I just wish she’d stop catching me with the equipment still in hand.