2050: not a moment too soon

I have become someone who only blogs about housework. Forgive me.

But god, when did cleaning start taking up such a high percentage of my life? Barely an evening goes by where something does not require hovered or cleaned or anti-bacteria-ed. The Boyfriend lives in blissful ignorance of the home the woodlice are making under our radiator, or the darkening rim in the bath, or the fact the oven needs cleaning.

It must be a happy world he inhabits.

A world where dirty washing reappears cleaned in wardrobes, the toilet magically smells of pine, and you have no interaction whatsoever with a toilet brush.

Let me be clear, The Boyfriend certainly does not think that cleaning is woman’s work, rather he does not see the mess. And when I point it out, usually with bottle of bleach in hand, a crazed expression on my face, and my voice a full octave above the usual pitch that I am,

 ‘fed up, sick of cleaning, is this really what you think I want to do in an evening? Yes I do feel put upon? Oh my god is that MOULD, this house is a TIP, how can you not see the crumbs everywhere? How have you got the new bin dirty?’ 

… He is usually quick to grab the hoover in a show of solidarity.

But I know that I am not alone. Worse still, change is hard to come by, and a study from Oxford University has found that men are unlikely to be doing an equal share of the vacuuming, dusting and washing up much before 2050. 2050. I’ll have retired. That is if retiring is still a concept in 40 years.

But he does try.

The Boyfriend: “I checked the laundry to see if it could be put away, but it seems to be getting damper.”

Me: “No love. That’ll be because that’s a new load.”

The Boyfriend: “ah.”

2050 you say? It’ll be here sooner than we think.

F**k the Po-lice

It’s fair to say that housework is the bane of my life. I hate everything about it. I hate that dust gathers at every opportunity, that crumbs appear on freshly hovered carpets (although for this I blame The Boyfriend) and that skirting-boards require any attention whatsoever. I wish I could be one of those people who has a clean home that is ready for visitors at a moment’s notice.

But I’m not. I resent every loathsome minute I have to spend cleaning.

And now it’s gone and gotten worse.

Woodlice have taken residence. They march in, in their droves, taking cover under furniture, rugs and afore mentioned skirting.

As if this isn’t horrific enough, this weekend the following incident occurred.

I was hovering them up, kneeling on the sofa, stretching elegantly over the back, hoover attachment in hand.

And then.

God, what a funny smell.

Jees is that burning?

Holy crap the hoover is smoking.

Oh god, it smells electrical.

*Sees sparks*

Oh, that’ll be my plugged in laptop cable being chewed up by the angry looking smoking hoover.

*Moves at PACE to power supplies and narrowly avoids electrical fire.*

What does this incident tell me? That hovering is dangerous? That woodlice and laptops do not mix? That I really am that stupid?  I do not have time to answer. I have people coming round and a house full of woodlice. Yes, I forgot to mention that during its ‘meltdown’ the hoover spat out all of the woodlice I had spent the previous hour exterminating.

I must get to work.