In Opatowc, Poland, they know that you're clinically depressed and on Prozac.
In Nucet, Romania, they know all about you and your partner being Furries. They have the photos to prove it (so that's where they went). To be honest, dressing up as as a tiger and engaging in dry- humping isn't the sort of behaviour you want to share, especially with 2,000 East Europeans.
In Ivana, Philippines, they know you have a secret bank account you keep hidden from everyone, including your spouse.
If there's one thing you expect from your cleaner, it's a modicum of snooping self restraint. You don't bargain on them rifling through your drawers, cupboards and medicine cabinets when you're not there.
In between their ferreting, you hope that they might also get round to a bit of dusting, polishing and hoovering. Good luck with that.
All too often, they just end up moaning that the place was so dirty and messy, they hardly knew where to start. So guess what? They didn't bother. But surely that's the point. Your home is meant to look like a post nuclear Hiroshima. If it didn't, why would you need a cleaner?
In common with a lot of people, you're invariably left disappointed with your Mrs/Miss/Mr. Mopp.
Frequently, things aren't a whole lot tidier than when you left them. OK, maybe the end of the toilet roll is folded into a triangle, giving a vague and incorrect impression of someone who gives a damn.
Meanwhile, underneath the bed, the amount of dust and fluff grows ever bigger. The grease in the oven grill pan remains untouched. The fridge resembles permafrost. The pile of ironing in the laundry basket is still as crumpled and creased as Sid James face.
Carry on Cleaning? As if.
A note informs you that there just wasn't nearly enough time to get everything done. Apparently though there was plenty of time for them to log onto your computer. How on earth do they know the password when you can barely remember it yourself? As if it isn't bad enough that the residents of Nucet have photos of you seductively grrring, they now have the video to boot. Fully expect it to go viral momentarily.
Is it any great surprise that so many of us decide to clean up before the cleaner arrives and then dutifully leave them the money on the kitchen table? ("God! fingers crossed I'm paying them enough).
If a job's worth doing, it's worth doing well. Therefore, do it yourself.
And at least if you're not satisfied with the level of work, you've only got yourself to blame. Perhaps next week you could remind yourself to give the tub an extra good scrubbing, particularly after returning home to discover the so called household help was in there wallowing in your favourite Chanel bubble bath with the next door neighbour.
Of course, we've all got horror stories about our choice of domestic support. I once came back to find my cleaner and her extended family sitting in the lounge drinking beer (my beer, I should hasten to add) and watching Sky Sports. Funny that, I wasn't even aware that I subscribed to Sky Sports.
Then there was Carla (name changed to protect the guilty). To be honest, I never knew anyone could take carelessness to such an extreme. Dropping so much stuff, she might as well have played in goal for England. About the only thing she didn't end up breaking was my heart.
Is the old adage that you just can't get the staff these day actually turning out to be true?
All you want is someone you can trust ,who is going to turn up on time, not run a mile when they see the state you've left things in and then go about making everything spic and span with the minimum of fuss.
Is that too much to ask for? If you find it is, I'm £10 an hour and have my own Marigold's.
Lock up your medical records, here I come.