Housework? No…

I hate housework. The only housework which I find remotely interesting is laundry, all the rest of it can be left to all the Monicas of this world. Laundy I like because it’s all about clean clothes folded in pretty piles and put away in their right place, ready to be worn again. Ironing, on the other hand, is a different story. A story very similar to other housework. That is, all housework except from laundry. The kind of housework Monica just looooved.

Unfortunately, there are no Monicas in my family or among my friends.

My way of cleaning is to wait as long as possible, until I can bear the dust bunnies no more. Then I drag out the vacuum cleaner and pray that I won’t find any stains under the dust, forcing mr to wash the floors as well. I prefer waiting to the following day to day that, so I don’t exhaust myself.

Now I’ve probably made you think that my flat is disgustingly filthy, and that is not the case. I just wish it was a degree or two cleaner and that I didn’t have to clean it myself. Or that I enjoyed cleaning only 10 % more than I do, which would just about make it bareble. I don’t have to love it, just like it a tiny bit.

I blame my hatred of cleaning on my mum. She is just like me. Only more clever. She has invested in one of those tiny vacuum cleaners, so she doesn’t have to bring out the big guns every time a dust bunny drifts across the floor.

One clever solution might be to get a cleaner. But then I hear of all the tidying people do the night before the cleaner is due. To me, all that tidying cancels out the advantages of having a cleaner. Maybe I could find a cleaner who would do both? And I could spend more time writing my blog. Nice.

Now I’ve got to go and vacuum.