I told you about my spring cleaning project; it was inspired by dirty hands.
The long, dark winter that masqueraded as spring had its uses – no sun to shine through my grubby windows, exposing this:
I looked around to see if it was a lone intruder but sadly, I discovered that we are mucky pups in this house. Fingerprints abound; dust raises the skirting boards two inches; clutter, clutter and more clutter (or, to give them their real names, the husband and sons). Something had to be done. I made a list.
So far, my fair hands have tidied out the upstairs double cupboard; re-arranged and cleaned a bookcase; washed a picture, a mirror, an ugly wooden mask that reminds me of the Hub (what? He bought it, that’s all. Stop inserting your own jokes); scrubbed the upstairs hall’s bannisters, skirting boards, plugs, light switches, long mirror and all seven doors, frames and the top bits that I can’t reach without ladders so they get cleaned only before painting, i.e. once in fifteen years (it’s not that I’m lazy; it’s just that I can’t afford to pay anyone to do it for me).
I’ll be honest - as well as the tops of the frames, I never the wash doors, either, unless it’s (again) before painting (bitter experience of watching unwashed, newly-painted doors flake like the Hub’s dandruff) or after vomiting children. No, I don’t vomit the children; the children vomit on my doors. Stop writing my post for me; I don’t do cleaning but I do do this.
I realised I set a dreadful example to my children when Spud and I had the following conversation:
Spud: What are you doing?
Me: Washing your door.
Spud [utterly baffled]: Why?
I have to hand it to him – he has a point.
‘s ugly mask.