I once had a flatmate called Tom, who behaved very oddly when our cleaner came round. On mornings when she was due he’d become strangely excited, like a man waiting for a date, though Madge (70) seemed an unlikely target. I would leave the flat so that Madge could get on with it, but Tom would insist on staying. He’d settle himself into an armchair, close his eyes and sit there, still as a toad, as she hoovered and dusted around him. Eventually I asked him about it, and he confessed. Listening to Madge, he said, ‘makes my brain feel nice’. As he explained it, the sounds of cleaning, sweeping and busying about sent delicious shivers running across his scalp. ‘It’s blissful — like a tingling feeling. But it’s not at all sexy,’ he was keen to stress.
I said: ‘Don’t fret, Tom. That all sounds… normal.’ I had no idea then just how very normal Tom was.
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