Thursday, 29 March 2012
There must be something wrong with me.
First it was the carpet and dusting off the ancient Vax machine, searching online fruitlessly for some instructions before conceding to the "suck it and see" rules of experiementation and sudless anti-foam carpet shampoo. The results were considerably less wet than expected and considerably cleaner carpets than expected. But I was audibly shocked at the colour of the water coming out. As a side effect, ancient carpet cleaners make for great upper body workouts.
Second was the underwear drawer clear out. Odd socks, heel-less socks, elastic-less knickers and wireless underwired bras were confined to the recycling bin. Not to be recycled into anything useful in my house despite my best efforts to visualise sock monkeys with no noses, but to be sorted by the council into rags. It was therapeutic but I now have no underwear.
Thirdly I have been washing (with actual soapy water in a bowl and sponges and drying cloths) my skirting boards. This was an amazing feat in itself but it was, in fact, a precursor to touching up the chipped paint where my hoover bashes into them whenever I drag it out and use it in anger (no other way to hoover in my household management manual).
Fourthly, I have weeded 3/4 of my 'flower' beds. This in preparation for a drought when nothing survives in my garden except dandelions.
Should I seek medical help? Should I at least have a lie down and sip gin? Should I start a cleaning company?
I have considered all 3 options, albeit the last one only very fleetingly, and the answer would seem that it is an annual infliction that I seem to recall occurring at a similar time last year. Yes it is the over-rated Spring Clean. Thing is it is getting worse every year and I have heard it can be age related, symptoms getting progressively acute as you age to the point of cleaning on a daily basis. I know, shocking isn't it! Who knows where this could end. I might actually wash the floors next.
Should I be worried? Is there a cure? I was quite fond of my loathing of all housework. I even discovered a name for it: Domesticaphobia. It would have been called Oikophobia had I been writing this post in the period immediately after WW2 and had Robert G. Moeller been reading it who invented the term in relation to slacking wives.
I like my Domesticaphobia status so please can anyone make any suggestions for what, on the (polished) surface of things, seems to be a cure?