Housework!

Looking around at the dust and cobwebs in Mr G's house makes me feel ashamed. I should be cleaning the place, but each time I do, he stops me, saying it's his house and he'll do it. Only he doesn't. Every so often he mops the wooden floors but doesn't brush or vacuum them first, so the dirt just gets pushed around by the mop. He gazes at the wet planks, basking in a virtuous glow, but all I can see is wet dust and cat hairs. So every time he goes out, I rush for the Hoover and the long-handled cobweb brush.

My mother hated ironing. So do I. I wonder if there is an ironing gene? If so, we lacked it. I hate vacuuming, especially as Mr G's Henry Hoover is far too heavy for me. Lugging it up the stairs almost breaks my back. If I had a lighter one, who knows, I might quite like doing it. I hate dusting, though it's a necessary evil, but I love polishing things till they gleam.

I love hanging out the washing and try to devise a scientific way of doing it, with heavier things like trousers in front and lighter things like pillow cases and socks at the back. I hang socks in pairs. On still days like today, I nip out and whiz the rotary dryer round, wishing I had a trudging donkey to pull it. Or a slave. A handsome Mediterranean boy with gleaming brown skin, a six-pack and twinkling brown eyes (down, girl!).

I love plumping up cushions and tidying and moving pictures, ornaments and tables around to see if they look better somewhere else and change the ambiance. Yet my bedroom is a tip because I have to share the cupboard space with Mr G's old computers and keyboards and ancient floppy disks with faded labels which no longer fit today's computers.

I love planting things in the garden and looking after them, but hate trimming hedges and pruning bushes as I'm too short for the job, and lack the arm muscles to wield the electric hedge trimmer. I love mowing grass but hate raking up afterwards, which means fallen leaves in autumn are a real pain. Literally.

Changing bed linen is fine apart from the battle to stuff the duvet into the cover. I've tried the inside out method, the standing in it method, you name it, I always end up looking as if I'm wearing a flowery burka. Hate cleaning windows, love polishing silver. Used to enjoy painting and decorating till the arthritis took over my hands.

Have I missed anything? I don't know if I've published this silly verse before, but here it is again as it's somewhat appropriate to the subject even though it applies to men.

THE HOUSEHUSBAND

They ask if I mind doing housework.
I tell them I don't give a f---.
Just give me that kinky maid's outfit
And a hoover on maximum suck!