Mister Mop

Clean

I have spent two hours cleaning my house this morning.

I woke early and bounced out of bed, full of the joys of summer. Being on holidays I was in a festive mood. Places to go, people to meet, things to do.
But wait. It’s a Tuesday – and everyone is either living it up in Ballybunion beach (Lanzarote if you’re fancy) or at work. Therefore I had some hours to kill.

It was time to wear my thinking cap – which I always like to think of as a stylish fedora. There is a person visiting from Amsterdam this week – not to see me in particular – more to pay a visit and see how Ireland lets its hair down. I had some semi-confirmed, nothing definite plans made. Therefore I couldn’t simply hop on a bus and go to the seaside.
After my morning coffee I decided to deal with the pile of dishes staring sullenly at me from the kitchen sink. Judging me. Accusing me of being an idle slattern. I addressed those dishes.

Then without thinking I found myself in the bathroom, on my knees wearing rubber gloves, with detergents and cleaning products beside me. Scrubbing. The toilet, sink, bath and floor were all polished. I am a good little scrubber. I wasn’t thinking about what I was doing – subconsciously I was invoking my desperate housewife on tranquilizers persona.

The bathroom dealt with, I moved the two metres to my bedroom and opened my cupboard. Quel horreur – that needed sorting – so an enjoyable few minutes were spent matching socks, hanging shirts and trousers and trying but failing, to put the ironing board away – it has a malfunction, meaning that it is always standing on guard, imploring me to iron my shirts. Feeling magnanimous, I did exactly that.

Bedroom sorted, I was back in the kitchen and living room – one room, two sections. Feeling like Freddie Mercury in the ‘I want to break free’ video, I produced my feather duster. Lampshades and shelves were attacked.

This tale of Tuesday morning fascination doesn’t end there however. Having cleaned the house, the last – and most odious – task remained. The vacuuming. It would have been a shame to ignore this one remaining job. Begone specks of dust.

I’ve always hated hoovering – being as it was one of the compulsory tasks of my childhood. My mother coming in when I had finished to move the sofa to double check that I hadn’t done the lazy version of vacuuming. Now that I am a man, I voluntarily moved the furniture to ensure the job was done properly.

After a well deserved cup of coffee, I wrote this blog. And I’ve just had a message from my friend.

I’m going to the beach.

The excitement of my life is boundless.

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