Household duties and chores keep getting in the way of writing novels, reading my books, and generally doing all the things I want to do. Instead, I must spend precious time on all the things I am forced to do. Not that anyone else is forcing me to do them, mind, but it is the knowledge that if I do not vacuum from time to time, a plague of dust mites will infiltrate my lungs and will be the death of us all.
Today has been dedicated to some cleaning and general organising, which is rather paradoxical because I couldn't organise a brewery in a piss-up, especially when sentence structure poses difficulties.
And so the first task is a shopping list on Tesco online, an absolutely marvellous invention when one has run out of essential ingredients such as eggs and flaked almonds. Not quite so marvellous when there's a little message at the side of some of the pictured items informing one that this product is no longer available. The crumble will be ruined.
Then of course the bins want bringing up from the garden gate but, oh, it's raining and I'm wearing goats' leather slippers. After changing, I run down to the bins and lug them unceremoniously up the tarmac drive, in such a hurry to get out of the rain I almost bump the Yaris with the paper recycling wheely bin. The kitchen bin lid needs washing and the rubbish taken out to the now accessible larger bin. But I've forgotten to get all the fluff from the tumble-dryer!
Our tacit (and rather rude) ironing lady has been and steamed her way through a basketful of towels and shirts, but what use is that when I end up having to re-iron a fair few shirts because she evidently can't tell a crease from a fold?
And the fridge. The fridge needs cleaning. It hasn't been done for a long time because there is dark brown gunk from mustard or sauce or whatever else exudes brown icky liquid sticking to the bottom shelf. There is a yoghurt from March. Unopened, and it is kept that way as it descends into the newly emptied kitchen bin. Jars of multiple chutneys and curry paste that have only been used once are discarded for I know not for how long they have been camped out there. Thankfully, I have managed to save the anchovies and artichokes. Once the scouring is complete and the trays re-constructed in their rightful door place I wash out the cheese box. I shall issue warning to family members that whosoever disturbs the immaculateness of the fridge shall be punishéd. Probably around the cerebral or nasal area with a glass jar of Marks and Spencer's pitted black olives.
The last task today will be deciding whether to have vegetable pilaf or vegetable curry for dinner. Lentils, chickpeas, or bulgar wheat? Such are the traumatic choices one must make.
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