I never seem to get out the door on time. I always find something that needs doing.
I’ll just sweep that floor. I’ll just empty the dishwasher. I’ll just hang out these few clothes. These things could wait until I get home but I think…’What if I get knocked down and die when I’m out?’
I imagine visitors coming to pay their respects and thinking ‘My God, the state of this place. Did she not own a hoover?’
When I clean, and clean, and clean, and the house is immaculate, nobody calls. But if I dare to ignore the cobwebs and the dust balls under the sofa; if I leave the pile of ironing on the table and the dishes in the sink while I sit down to watch ‘Home and Away’, there’s guaranteed to be a ring on the doorbell.
Then I nearly knock myself out… hiding the ironing, running a baby wipe across the counter and spraying the Febreze on the way out to answer the door. Of course, I spend the next ten minutes apologising for the state of the place.
A ‘friend’ once said to me ‘Stop apologising, your house is your home, it looks lived in’.
Translation…Dirty wagon I must buy her a tin of Mr. Muscle for her birthday.
Why can I not be the type of person who doesn’t give a shite what people think? It’s not like I’m overly house proud or a clean freak; I mean, some of those spiders are like part of the family and I feel bad sucking up their webs into my Vax.
My mam always said. ‘ If you want to come see me, you are welcome anytime but if you’re coming to see the house…make an appointment’. Fair balls to you mammy.
I’ve changed my ways a lot lately. I hung out the washing and made the beds this morning but if I am knocked down by a bus when I’m out… can somebody hoover my stairs please?