I have a lazy, sloppy cleaner who leaves filthy streaks on my mirrors and flecks of old toothpaste in the sink. My husband tells me to sack her… but this is the shameful reason I cant

As I lift a half-empty mug of cold coffee and a well-thumbed paperback from my bedside table, I discover a miniature crime scene underneath them. Two silhouettes perfectly etched in a thick layer of dust.

The rest of the surface has clearly been given a spritz of furniture polish, but these ghostly outlines endure as stubborn evidence of cut corners. In fact, the coffee cup shouldn’t still be there at all.

Such are the fingerprints (or rather dust prints) of having a lousy cleaner.

Despite my entreaties to ‘get into corners and give the house a thorough going-over’, the evidence of her slack approach is everywhere.

I see it in gauzy cobwebs lacing the ceiling, on smeared windows and in the tacky touch of sticky door handles.

Each time our cleaner, let’s call her Pauline*, leaves after her four-hour shift, a breadcrumb trail of her negligence becomes apparent as the day wears on.

In fact, my husband says he can set his watch by my grumbles about her work on a Friday afternoon. His response is binary and unflinchingly practical: tell her or sack her.

I’ve done the first, mentioning very politely that it would be such a help if she could remember to empty the bins or lift up the mats or rugs when she vacuums or washes the floor.

But it doesn’t come easily. I feel a bit ick about taking even a slightly imperious approach. (Though once, as she was ­leaving, I followed her out with a black bin liner full of rubbish – a silent, craven plea for her to watch and learn.)

Otherwise I fume in silence… and have done for two years.

Sometimes, when I do offer a whispered objection, she tells me she’s run out of time, though I always make it clear I’d rather one room was done properly than everything tackled superficially.

For a week or two, matters might improve, before sliding straight back into the familiar sloppiness.

Meanwhile, I keep employing her. The question is why? After all, I wouldn’t keep going back to a restaurant that served bad food.

In my own world as a freelance writer, I’m expected to deliver work to the highest standard. So why do I tolerate anything less from someone I pay?

The answer, I’m ashamed to confess, lies in personal weakness. I love the illusory rush of walking into a house that at least appears presentable.

Carpets are hoovered, while the welcoming tang of disinfectant and something synthetically floral signals everything’s shipshape.

Then I go into the kitchen and find breakfast dishes idling in the sink and irritation begins to bubble.

On one occasion, I remember asking Pauline to be especially meticulous with a spare bedroom since first-time visitors were coming to stay.

The result looked – at least at first glance – presentable. But zooming in on the surfaces it was clear dust slumbered on the window frames and flecks of old toothpaste were crusted behind the taps.

Since I only discovered this after she’d left, I had to ­grimace and finish the job myself.

Another reason I don’t give her the boot is down to entry-level economics. I earn far more an hour than my (admittedly well-paid) cleaner does.

Market forces dictate it makes sense for her to do the job – albeit badly and superficially – rather than me, so I can use the time in a more lucrative and productive way.

Plus, if I fired Pauline then I’d have no cleaner! How would I manage to work and clean? It’s a terrifying thought.

Better to have a backsliding cleaner than a vacancy, especially since reliable cleaners are hard to find. Demand is higher than ever: some 17 per cent of private households now use a cleaner, and the call for specialised commercial cleaning services continues to rise.

What’s more, a survey of 2,000 British adults found the majority of people don’t have time in their weekly schedules to dust and scrub thanks to longer working hours, a desire to maintain a social life and childcare responsibilities.

Truthfully though, statistics aside, one of the main reasons I keep her on is that I’m an outrageous coward.

In my work as a broadcaster, I have roared in disagreement at politicians. But in my ­private life, I avoid confrontation like the plague.

The idea of sacking someone makes me recoil in horror. The stumbling conversation, the awkward mitigation.

Perhaps it’s an essentially British characteristic, marinated in the guilt of having to tell someone they will no longer be receiving an income, at least from me.

I must make it clear there’s nothing personal here. I always offer Pauline cups of tea and indulge in a bit of chat about her family before she gets cracking (or not).

I also realise I’m in a privileged position. Due to straitened finances, we never had cleaners when I was a child. My late mother grafted and kept our home spotless.

Equally, I’m no draconian slave driver. In fact, before the brickbats start raining down, let me state that I preface any debrief with Pauline – be it in person, or through a note on the fridge – in the same way, saying: ‘Do as much as you can.’

Is it worth it for streaky mirrors? No. Should she go? Yes.

So having, somewhat cathartically, admitted how ridiculous this situation is, will I actually do anything about it and give my cleaner her cards?

Ask me next Friday… but only once she’s finished.