A mixed bag of thoughts

Well, it's the start of another week and, surprise surprise, I'm no more organised than I normally am. Despite the good intentions I had over the weekend to catch up with the housework/ironing/million little things I know I SHOULD do, I didn't really do very many of them outside cooking the usual feasts for Mini and whoever-else-turns-up-here-looking-hungry, a bit of laundry and some fairly desultory tidying up. Because, and this won't come as a big shock to people who know me, as I get older my hearty distaste for trivial domestica gets worse.

Although I'll happily stand for hours cooking I have always absolutely loathed cleaning. The problem is I DO like things to be clean and tidy - which places me between a rock and a hard place really. The situation isn't helped by being Welsh - the Welsh are by and large fanatical about housework and I can virtually hear preceeding generations of Angevin womenfolk spinning in their graves as I put the kettle on, open another book and stick a mental two-fingers up at the hoovering. This incipient guilt is further enhanced by the fact I feel constrained to apologise for my midden every time somebody comes round... if the visitors are members of my family I can virtually SEE them thinking 'Ah well, she had an English father', even as they pounce upon my permanently full cake and biscuit tins like the proverbial plague of locusts. It doesn't really matter to them I feed them like kings. It doesn't matter my pantry (the Ray Mears Nuclear Survival Store) is stocked with all sorts of things I've put time and love into making which you normally wouldn't expect to find outside the pages of Anne of Green Gables or Little House on the Prairie. It doesn't matter there are beautiful things everywhere which I've spent time and love sewing. It doesn't matter that Mini, home-educated by me, is streets ahead of his peers, actively loves finding out about things and engaging with the world generally. No, what matters is that the worktops should be uncluttered, the floor swept and not a speck of dust visible. And I am made to feel like a subhuman piece of poo because more often than not, the place looks like Steptoe's yard.

Now although a big bit of me feels hugely resentful about this injustice; because I was brought up to believe a clean and tidy house is a 'proper' house another bit of me heartily despises myself for being such a slob. So, every so often I'll make resolutions to spend the day scrubbing. Usually only to be seduced by a book I've ordered JUST arriving from Amazon (well, it won't hurt if I put the kettle on and have JUST half an hour dipping into it, will it?); or my embroidery calling to me to JUST finish that little motif (well it won't hurt if I put the kettle on and JUST 'do' that particular colour, will it?); or Mini JUST wanting to know about something he's unearthed from somewhere (well it won't hurt if I put the kettle on and JUST spend half an hour talking about it, will it?); or even JUST wanting to spend a half an hour sitting on the swing seat in the garden, taking advantage of the unseasonable good weather, laughing at chicken antics and enjoying a cup of tea. You get the picture.

So this week is starting with the usual good resolutions. The Cillit Bang is primed and ready on the worktop. The new rubber gloves have been unleashed from their wrapping. The vacuum cleaner has had a new bag fitted. And what am I doing?? Well, I'm JUST spending half an hour updating this blog, aren't I?