DAY 10: Mopping my floors

WHILE I wait for something exciting like this to come to fruition:

I decide I might as well clean my house for the first time. I bought the mop last October when I moved in, but … you know … time flies.

So, Friday night, hey? Cleaning the house. When I bought this country retreat I had bosomy visions of baking scones, hemming floral curtains and knitting on the train (as do some of the local men, I fuck you not), but now I find I can’t even remember where I stashed the hoover.

I’ve been putting this off because a disordered house is the first sign of Can’t Copeism and I haven’t wanted to face the fact that every time you open a kitchen cupboard round these parts everything comes rushing out like so many inappropriate thoughts. So I’ve been letting Mr Thumpy the rabbit cavort amongst the dust bunnies, trusting that if I drop anything edible he’ll at least eat it.

In my defence, commuting four hours a day leaves you about ready for The Real Housewives of New York and very little else when you get in, although my daily calendar reminder “YOU’RE NOT TIRED!” is designed to briskly dismiss any fears of dropping the ball. Back when I was in the Brownies I used to get up at six in the morning and scrub the kitchen like a benevolent elf, as per the Brownie Guide Law. You’re supposed to do it anonymously and seek no reward, but even as a seven-year-old I knew Mum wasn’t going to buy the elf story, thus lashes of approval would be forthcoming.

There’s no immediately obvious reward here, but after some therapeutic slopping action (the lack of a bucket is a major inconvenience), I start to understand the meaning of ‘house proud’. The psychic from Day Eight told me I have a cranky former tenant in her eighties haunting my every slovenly move, and the old dear spurs me on with a snappy “Put your back into it!” What… even under the kitchen table? Oh, all right then.

I hope she doesn’t mind me smoking outside.

Keeper? Yep. I don’t think it’s really clean clean just yet.