Finally there is a man in this house and slowly, slowly a semblance of order is being achieved. Cupboards and drawers have been cleared. Months of clutter swept away in a matter of minutes. Clean, empty spaces have been created for the tools of man-cooking.
The pile of dirty washing, to immense and daunting for the Girlf to contemplate, has been stormed. Ground is being gained as, load by load, it shrinks and wilts under the assault of man-will.
The campaign will be short but effective, no more than two or three days. It won’t be able to take this kind of heavy bombardment. As clothes dry on all the radiators yet another load is being washed downstairs to replace them. I am only hindered by the limited drying space.
Nicely, nicely.
The Girlf is irked by the intrusion. She informs me again that this is her ‘gaff’ and I can add to it but not change it. In my hurry to clear the kitchen cupboards and drawers I inadvertently throw out a lot of ‘useful stuff’.
I was highly perplexed by this. I was under the impression I throw out a few Easter egg boxes, some plastic packaging and a lot of used wrapping paper. It was as if that particular cupboard had become a holding bay for future rubbish, a halfway house between the shopping and the bin.
I’ve been told to leave the rest of the cupboards alone. She likes them like that. That’s how she wants them and that is how they shall remain. I recognise this for the childish assertion of power that it is but seeing as all my utensils are safely ensconced in the kitchen I have no need to argue and promptly agree.
The man-telly has been installed in the dinning room downstairs. I refuse to put it in the lounge. It may well be newer and nicer than the current telly upstairs but it is my telly and I will not have it corrupted by chick flicks, property programmes, diet shows or Glee.
My telly has had a cultured upbringing. It’s has become accustomed to documentaries, art programmes and some of the best cinema of the last thirty years. What kind of a custodian would I be to allow it now to be degraded by cheer movies and Pokémon?
Downstairs there is silence, the washing machine has finished another cycle. I’m wondering if I can get one more load in before bed. It’s only half two. I can hang out this load of clothes on the clothes horse in the bathroom. I might just be able to squeeze them on. Then I can do a towel wash and hang them out tomorrow when some of the radiator clothes have dried.
It’s very tempting. I am a child with a new toy. I’ve never had to wash clothes in my life and I really don’t understand what all the fuss is about. The washing machine washes them all I have to do is put them in and push a button.
Upstairs what’s left of the pile is mocking me. I’m determined to get every item of clothing in this house clean. I’m very aware that I’m trying to prove a very immature point to the Girlf.
She’s normally far to busy reading romance novels to bother with it until the lack of clean clothes becomes critical. Like all modern women she takes pride in her in-ability to cook and clean as if an absence of talent is something to boast about.
I myself, not being the result of forty years of feminism, don’t feel particularly chained to the kitchen sink. I just happen to wash up when I pass it and it needs doing.
When all the clothes are clean there will be no more piles. There are four of us in this house. There is no way we can produce more than two loads of dirty clothes on a daily basis. Once I get through it the piles will be banished forever. Yesterdays clothes will be done the following day and man-logic would have conquered this woman induced problem.
Then maybe I can stop tripping over the fucking things in the dark.
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