Mad Hair Day

Reality has turned out somewhat different. Instead there is paperwork, stacks of it. Enormous Matterhorns of the stuff, threatening avalanches enough to scare even the most diligent of secretaries. There are flurries of post-it notes, tacked to every surface like little neon nags, constant reminders of all the tasks not yet completed. And there is The Laundry.

I never thought there would be this much laundry in my glamorous future. Images of crunchy socks and primeval depths of teenaged-boy’s-jean’s-pockets never sprang to mind when I contemplated my jet-setting lifestyle. I never expected that a family of five could get through eight towels a day (especially as the three youngest members have to be chloroformed and hog-tied to get them into the bathroom without me yelling myself into an aneurysm.

I am a strong woman. In the face of adversity I can display hitherto undreamt-of depths of bloody-mindedness that bode well for the survival of my family in case of global anarchy. But I am beaten by the ironing. The other ugly-stepsister of the world of housework, my ironing has become my bete-noir. I am ashamed of it, embarrased by it, haunted and taunted and defeated by it. It has taken over my dining table, it fills the chairs, it encroaches into the living room and occupies the laundry room.

The top strata of recently washed jeans and shirts and blouses are misleading in their ordinariness. But the true nature of the beast lies deeper. Crumpled chinos, flattened so long ago that their cotton surface will never relinquish the creases, linen skirts that defy even the hottest and steamiest of irons, frilly girly dresses that are so complicated that goffering irons and tongs are required to make them look good, polyester non-creasing garments that weren’t. They are banding together, plotting against me, taking over the world, one plastic basketful at a time. I think it is breeding like some horrible 1970’s horror flick, it comes alive at night time and moves further into the house, slowly claiming new square footage until we are eventually forced out from our home and take refuge in the shed.

Naturism is our only hope.

Be careful what you wish for.

We are entering Week Three of House Guest Hell (patent pending) and we have reached the hissy-fit stage where conversations between Big Hairy Man and I are held in the pantry with gritted teeth and the children are threatened with “just you wait till I get you home” Medusa-style glares in public places and the novelty of having someone else in your house, with all that that entails, has worn cobweb-thin and I’m just one chardonnay away from drowning them all in the washing machine if only I could find it again under the Appalachian Laundry Mountain (TM).

When stressed I cook. Which is lucky really as I seem to be the only person in the house acquainted with the exact location of the kitchen. I’ve baked cakes which turned out well and I’ve baked cakes that did not:

This is what happens when you are distracted by laundry, the postman and small children who garble things about water and taps and bathroom towels and how somebody else “did do it” and the cat appears to be peculiarly wet and cross. I was trying to relieve stress with a quick Pineapple Boiled Fruit Cake. In true Superhero Housewife fashion (I shall call myself Domestica and wear a cape made from dusters and weild a toilet brush with powerful and magical cleansing powers) I rescued the above disaster by cutting off all the crusts, dousing in alcohol (I used sherry but rum, whisky or brandy would have done) and serving with lashings of custard. Nobody but you and I know what it looked like when it came smoking out of the oven. Well, us and the chicken who ate the evidence but she isn’t telling. Not if she knows what’s good for her.

Now some house guests are easy, they clear up after themselves, hang out the laundry when they want to use the washing machine and find it full of wet stuff. They give the bathroom a quick swipe with the cleaning cloth when the kids have drawn maps on the mirror in toothpaste (reading Paddington Bear at bedtime was clearly a bit of a mistake) and are relatively au fait with the workings of a potato peeler.

Some houseguests are not easy. Some do not put their dishes in the kitchen, never mind the dishwasher. Some do not take their shoes off after walking through mud and say nothing as they sit on the sofa and watch you scrape the crud off the carpet. Some never offer to put the kettle on, wash up the odd pot or even make the kids toast when they get their own breakfasts. Some guests, who shall remain nameless, can go two whole weeks without once saying “that was lovely” or “thank you” after yet another meal cooked up solely by yours truly. Some will even let go of your small child’s hand while crossing a busy road because their mobile phone beeped and they wanted to see who had sent them a text message. Or they drone on daily, at length, about how they really want to go on a boat trip but once aboard spend the entire jaunt with eyes closed groaning and then tell you that they always get seasick on boats and don’t understand why you would subject them to such torture.

Some guests are never going to be guests here again.