and a jolly time was had

This morning I took a trip down memory lane by doing some housework. I found a pretty apron, wrapped a scarf round my hair - truly fetching - used a GPS to find the vacuum cleaner and a private detective to locate the dusters. I didn't rush through these stages. Like a convalescent returning to solid food or an exercise phobe joining a gym, I knew it was important to ease myself in gently.


I switched on the vacuum cleaner and in relaxed fashion began sucking up who-knows-how-many months of dust, humming away like Winnie the Pooh, feeling singularly virtuous. Surprisingly quickly there was a sense of familiarity and not the teensiest, weensiest tinge of angst about being deskilled, not even when the machine gobbled up the wire from the alarm clock while I indulged in scholarly thoughts about writing and wondered what to have for lunch.


The problem is I adopt a perfectionist attitude to housework. If I'm going to clean a room I MAY AS WELL DO IT PROPERLY. So instead of a quick skim with the duster I go for it as if I were spring-cleaning. Doing a room, therefore, may take an hour and a half (gasp), which is why I don't engage in this activity often. People who profess to cleaning their homes in a morning obviously resign themselves to a more pragmatic approach. Something I, too, might consider. After finishing the master bedroom, I had two dusters ready to be washed and thought I could allow myself a little rest while they dried. Perhaps even get down to something creative.


As I suspected, my enthusiasm to continue this worthy pastime for which we women are divinely created and unarguably suited, had dwindled somewhat by the time the dusters were ready for further action. It wasn't that I was the slightest bit envious of my partner whom I knew was spending several relaxing hours on a beach in Cyprus after days of back-to-back meetings. How could that be preferable to checking under worktops for dead mice and sorting through mounds of paperwork? No, I was itching to write (relief, as university deadlines edge nearer, yet again) and decided to regard my one room success as evidence enough I was still capable of domestic productivity.


By three o'clock I became aware I hadn't eaten, let alone done any writing or had my swim, all of which ideally I would achieve before my son returned from an afternoon with friends to our Saturday evening ritual of a carry out meal and rented DVD.

Diligently yours,


Jane