Things I won't miss

Tra la la! We are Elizabeth Hurley free! What a lovely Sunday morning feeling on a Friday! For the first time in weeks I don't feel obliged to rise early to get the milk out, which Hurley reminds me about if I do not do. Sometimes for a good fifteen minutes. She claims breakfast is very important and if she doesn't get a pint of milk by 8am she may pass out. I have tried suggesting the corner shop opens at 6am, but strangely, at this point, her English fails her.

Come to think of it, there are several things now that I will not miss.

Elizabeth Hurley's dreadful washing up. This was so awful that I routinely crept back into the kitchen after she'd done any washing up and stick it in the dishwasher. I discovered why all items came and left the washing up bowl looking untouched. Hurley does not use hot water because it hurts her hands. And that applies to the washing up liquid too.

Hurley's reminders that more home-made jam is required. These reminders have been given in the same way as reminders about milk or bread or anything else. The empty jam pot / milk bottle / packaging is lifted up and wordlessly waved at me.

I will not miss either the fact that Hurley, with supreme laziness, never put anything away. From things she washed up ('I do not know where zey go') to personal items like make up and books ('Where eez my mak-up? But I left it ici on zee table in zee kitchen next to zee cereal').

Neither will I miss the way Hurley interpreted five hours work each day to mean disappear to her bedroom after breakfast to reappear for lunch and then sit on the sofa and read a book. And when asked to help with the housework, reply 'my book it is very good.'

In fact, when Hurley did do anything, it was so horribly wrong that sometimes it was preferable when she didn't do it at all. Not only did she block the vacuum cleaner so we had to dismantle it to clear it, she routinely blocked the conditioner tray in the washing machine with powder so that the final rinse was with a rather hefty helping of Daz. Fortunately on this one, she never did any laundry for us, just for herself.

Neither will I miss the tartes. Now I know this sounds odd, and for the first week it was quite a novelty. But there's only so much fat and sugar I can stuff down my throat without feeling like a foie gras goose. Last week we reversed the torture and the children made steamed puddings and custard which Hurley dutifully ate. After her third helping of golden syrup pudding at 2000 calories a slab, Dig suggested our parting gift to her might be a pair of English thighs.

And if that were all, it would be quite good. But no. There was the constant demand on Dig to fetch and carry, the constant demand on Grit for shopping essentials, the way the entire household seemed to have to reorganise to orientate around her, and the effortless way her very presence would send Tiger into orbit.

If there is a finally, which I suspect there isn't if I thought about it, there's Hurley's complete lack of sensitivity and awareness to her surroundings while she lived with us. In particular Grit's birthday, when she told Dig off for allowing the kids into the flat to blow up balloons at breakfast.

Phew. That was therapy. I hope she never comes back to wash up the saucepan of left-over rice she's placed in the sink from her lonesome dinner last night, or for the one sock and the pyjama top I've just thrown into the bin.