So, I’ve decided to become tidy.
OK, that’s a bit of a grand declaration, probably destined to fail.
I’m going to try to get more organised?
I’m going to try?
I’ve made the confession here before that I’m a housekeeping disaster.
I made it while I was pregnant and explained that I think good mothers probably fold the laundry instead of stuffing the drawers.
I do that now. Mostly.
Talitha’s room is the most organised one in the house due to this “good mothers do” mentality.
And let’s not go down with the feminist thing.
Yes, I call myself a feminist.
Yes, I know vacuuming isn’t gendered.
I’m the one with more time so I consider most of this responsibility mine.
Honestly, I have been on the path to rehabilitation, to enlightenment, if you will, and here’s where I am – completely unrecognisable to teenager me but not enough of an improvement on student me.
I’m probably, um, sixty per cent of the way to where I should be?
That may be a little generous some days.
Now that we live in a house, rather than have more space to give everything its place (even writing that phrase I heard my mother’s voice just then – it’s the middle of the night and a bit spooky), it’s kind of become this sprawling landscape for the mess to spread itself, no longer stifled by the confines of a bedroom.
Instead it’s all free to roam: clothes, books, shoes relocating themselves to exciting destinations.
I like to think of it as a house of surprises.
A hunt for the remote control reveals a month-long-sofa-eaten jumper and BOOM!
It feels like a lazy girl’s shopping spree.