The real reason? To curb my growing obsession with domesticity!
I don't know why, but since I've been mistress of the maisonette I've developed a guilt complex about kicking back when I have a bit of time to myself. When T's working late, I'll busy myself with cooking, baking, washing up, and laundry duties, and if I finish all if that I'd probably start scrubbing the doorstep or something. By this point it becomes hypothetical - I've never got to that stage, but I was dangerously close. On the edge, to be brutally honest.
For some unknown reason I can't bring myself to sit by the fire with a book until all if these chores are complete. I have plenty of unscheduled time but somehow can only finish a book when on a beach holiday.
I thought this was just part of the deal when one moves away from parents/cleaning companies, but the other week I realized that there's something deeper, more sinister at work. I'm becoming a housewife!
I didn't fully accept this until last week. My parents-in-law were about to visit and T was playing in a concert the night before they were due to arrive. Work was busy so I'd had no chance to even make the house look tidy, let alone clean and shiny. Instead of joining T at his after-show party, I drove hurriedly (and huffily) home to start scrubbing taps.
Why?
I make their son happy, I've never ever given him food-poisoning and I pair up his socks after doing the laundry. Must I also be capable of making hospital corners and have the time to polish doorknobs?
Logically I'm aware that it makes little sense, but the spirits of ancient housewives seem to lure me inexorably to my new fate.
But I will resist. I shall learn to draw the line (in the gathering dust) at extraneous housework in favour of me-time and the sky will not fall in. I will make blog, not quiche.
And I will start as soon as I've washed up.
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