Dust If You Must...

Housework. Ugh.

Not my favourite thing but, being too poor for a cleaner and too single for a house-husband, a necessary task. Or is it? I mean, who do we clean for? Really? If no one is looking, who hasn't left the dishes for a few days, or ignored the dust bunnies taking up residence under the bed? My attitude to wiping skirting boards, as with many things, is manana.

I think I've always been like this, if the conversation my Mum had with a customer is anything to go by. Not realising the lady knew me, Mum quite happily dropped me in it and shared my slovenly habits, which have been developing since approximately 1987. Cheers, Mum! But she's right. As much as I love the smug feeling of having a clean house, I can always find something more interesting to do than tidy up. Do I really care about coats hung on the bannister? Or washing that has been drying in the airing cupboard for so long it's stiff as a board by the time I come to need it? No. I can successfully ignore most unpleasant things until they become urgent, and dusting is one of them.
The clue to my motivation is revealed whenever I have friends (or my Mum) over- the hoover comes out, the washing up gets done, the sofas get de-dogged- proving that, when it comes to housework, I am a complete slut but I at least I know it.

I did tackle the office today. Since my epic wardrobe clear out, it has housed six- yes six- recycling bags of clothes that no longer fit, as well as the carnage which was me trying to throw out paperwork that I don't need anymore (planning from 2006, anyone?). Less of a workspace than a dumping ground... I did quite well- lasted an hour before I got bored and started playing with my Teksta puppy (so cool) and flipping through old photos. Then I needed a cup of tea, and that was that. I do, however, have a floor now. Which is more than I had in 1987, apparently.

 

Despite my Mum shaming me publicly, I've given up feeling bad about my sloppy cleaning routine though. My house, on any given day, is cleanish, tidyish and not in such a bad state that I'd need to call a professional crew out. You know, the ones who wear special suits and masks. It'll do. And there are so many other fun things to do than housework! This week, instead of cleaning, I have been working my way through both the book and TV version of A Game of Thrones (cleaning back then consisted of sand baths and buckets of water to wash away blood on the floor) taking my boys on epic exploratory walkies (the only cleaning required being the picking up of poo) and writing (I'll clean it up later). And the pub, of course.

On that note, I'd like to share with you a poem that's been doing the rounds for aeons, but perfectly sums up why my house is never perfectly presentable. It's by that famous and much-loved author "anon".

Dust If You Must

Dust if you must, but wouldn't it be better
To paint a picture or write a letter,
Bake a cake or plant a seed,
Ponder the difference between want and need?

Dust if you must, but there's not much time,
With rivers to swim and mountains to climb,
Music to hear and books to read,
Friends to cherish and life to lead.

Dust if you must, but the world's out there,
With the sun in your eyes, the wind in your hair,
A flutter of snow, a shower of rain,
This day will not come around again.

Dust if you must, but bear in mind,
Old age will come and it's not kind.
And when you go- and go you must-
You, yourself, will make more dust.

What would you rather be doing than housework?