Weekly Photo Challenge: Hands

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:

 

Ewwwwwwwwwww!

 

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.

 

The Hub

‘s ugly mask.