... is a sign of a wasted life? There are some things about living in France that differ in no way from living anywhere else. One of those is housework; inevitable, laborious, tedious, repetitive.
I am not a fan, in general, of housework, but what I detest the most is tidying the boys' bedroom. Today the state of emergency level was bordering on 'unhealthy' so I sent them in to wage war on the total chaos that raged on the floor. Heaven knows what was lurking in there, with its feet up, watching tele with a cup of cocoa, thinking itself safe from a brutal hoovering. Ha! I think NOT!
The boys made a courageous effort, I must admit. They didn't just push the mess under the bed, chest of drawers and other sundry orifices; they picked things up and chucked them in the nearest handy receptical. When we moved in, I had organised their room beautifully (natch!) with a box for cars, one for figures, one for general toys, one for Brio, one for weapons and so on. Would you believe me if I told you such organisation was still in place? No, I thought not, and you'd be correct. Everything is all over the place, and to really tidy it up, it would all have to be tipped out, and rearranged properly.
I went in there, took one look, went out again and decided to unblock the shower. To do such a ghastly, smelly job instead of tidying the bedroom indicates the task that had still to be undertaken... With the shower all sparkling and clean, crappy French plumbing unblocked, and a general air of cleanliness in there, I confronted the bedroom.
The hoover bag was full, and the boys had already hoovered up a bathrobe belt which was blocking the hoover thus rendering it useless. I sorted that out, got a bin bag and set to work, my temper getting worse by the minute. It now looks presentable in there; nothing more. It needs a blitz that I'm not prepared to spend the time or effort on today, especially as the hard work would be invisible a few days hence.
That is what I hate about housework. The crap returns. Where does it all come from, and why don't whole places disappear in the process of being transferred into peoples' homes? You should see the dust I collected off the stairs after one week's usage. Just one week. What hole now exists having been stamped up the stairs and down again? It's one of life's conundrums.
I always feel I could be doing something more interesting when hoovering, cleaning, unblocking. Life is passing me by as I pick up small cars and weapons, again. Instead of spending Saturday afternoons on housework, I could be improving my mind, visiting places, playing an instrument, cycling with the boys, tennis, reading, writing my book. Anything! I'm one of those people who was born to have a woman that does twice a week. Unfortunately, I was not born with the means. Oops, a celestial cockup there...
I used to have a cleaning lady, in more comfortable times. It was joy, pure joy to walk through the door after she'd been and see the house gleaming, tidy and not how I'd left it.
We all have our secret miracles. That one is mine.