Clean living

My mum has been round to help me clean. We wore aprons, rubber gloves and practically re-enacted the 1950s. We actually discussed how shiny the downstairs sink was for quite some time. I always hoped I’d break through my own personal boundaries in my 30s and apparently I have. Who would’ve known it was cleaning. My feminist self hates me but the realist me had become so insanely irritated by the growing grime I may have reached my nirvana.

And I don’t stand alone as have had several conversations with friends about how grot in the house is a constant battle. 

Some people in my world I reckon think I place more importance on cleaning than I should. Seriously I don’t. To confirm this my mum cleaned my windows for the first time in 26 months. I had started to feel ashamed when seeing the neighbours. She also scooped – yes scooped – off dust from bookshelves and window sills that could clothe the children through winter. Dust, that’s actually dead skin and general grot. Grim. We also had a “sort out” and created a pile of stuff for Mr MF as putting on the tops of his 4 million books is not a home and as I like to say now I’m living the 1950s dream is “if it hasn’t got a home, then it can’t live here”.

And ever since our cleaning marathon I have felt a sense of achievement that really isn’t healthy. Let’s not forget the car, which is still gleaming. 

However, like some kind of reminder that a fifties housewife I will not make, I have just recreated a scene from Lost Boys outside. The one where Kiefer Sutherland tries to get Jason to eat the maggots that are actually rice, or are they? I went to put a binbag in the wheelie dustbin and lifted the lid to reveal hundreds of maggots. I actually gagged. It was horrific. And the bin isn’t being collected for another two days. Damn you heatwave and your abilities to aid the fly population beyond the speed of light. So although it was gone 9pm on a weekday, I then had the merry task of pouring boiling water all over the bin and in the bin four times, spraying beach on the entire moveable feast of waste and wriggling vermin following by more boiling water. I mean, what could I do. So tomorrow morning I am wondering if I will face fly city out there or maggot hell once more? I slightly mocked my sister several weeks ago after she discussed having cleaned her wheelie bin out. Mock no more, as sadly now this job will have to be done once it’s emptied. Or I may just call my mum again.

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