Tidy

I've been having a bit of a clear-out this week, partly in despair at the enormous tottering mountains of magazines, paperwork and books in every corner of the house, but mostly in a desperate effort to make the annual pre-Christmas house-cleaning less arduous in a few weeks.

It started more or less by accident yesterday, when I was sorting out laundry. I ought to draw a critical path analysis diagram to illustrate the path of progress I took.

Step 1:  Sort out a load of laundry and put it in the washing machine.  Decide to tidy up my Heap of Shame in the corner.

Step 2:  Pick up assorted items of clothing on the floor, sort through and either hang up or place in laundry basket.  Stand back and admire empty spot where Heap of Shame previously lived.  Decide to hoover the bedroom.

Step 3:  Fetch hoover, realise that Mr WithaY's Heap of Shame threatens to overwhelm his half of the bedroom.  Suggest* he sorts it out.

Step 4:  Decide to clean window frames of black filth and mould while he sorts out the Heap.   Fetch cleaning wipes from the bathroom.  Clean bathroom sink, bath and shower with cleaning wipes, as they're all a bit grubby now you look at them.

Step 5:  Return to bedroom.  Clean all black filth from window frames.  Decide to dust window ledges, as they are grey and fluffy rather than white and shiny.

Step 6:  Fetch duster from study.  Find furniture polish cleaning wipes in box with duster.  Realise desk is very grubby.  Clean with furniture polish wipes.  Move dressmakers form out of study onto landing to be put back in the loft later.

Step 7:  Mr WithaY, taking a break from sorting his Heap, scrambles up into the loft to put the dressmakers form away.  Both stand back and admire the empty spot in the study where it used to be.

Step 8:    Return to bedroom.  Dust window ledges.  Realise every other flat surface in the bedroom is also grey and fluffy. Dust everything else.  Raise huge clouds of dust.  Re-dust window ledges as a result.  Finally, with Mr WithaY's Heap of Shame cleared, hoover the bedroom floor.

Step 9:  Hoover the landing, study, spare bedroom (in a cursory manner, then shut the door on it), and finally the bathroom.  Oh, and then the top half of the stairs.

As you see, this endless displacement activity type of cleaning goes on in an indefinite loop, until you run out of cleaning wipes or the hoover needs emptying.  In this example, it ended with Mr WithaY making us a cup of tea, thus cunningly breaking the cycle.

This morning I was planning to get all the ironing done. My ironing routine is simple, but effective.  I put the TV in the bedroom on, find something fairly unchallenging to watch (Frasier, Star Trek, Big Bang Theory, as examples) and then stand there for an hour or two, turning a basket full of scrumpled tatty-looking rags into several neat piles of pressed folded clothes.  It's deeply satisfying, in a low-grade way.

I was thwarted by the weather.  (First world problems klaxon here.)

The satellite link to the upstairs TV is badly affected by the weather. If it rains, even a little bit, the signal breaks up and the programme becomes unwatchable.  Clearly, I cannot be expected to iron without the amusing exploits of American actors to keep me occupied, so I have to put the iron back down with an exasperated sigh, and go and do something else.  And here we are.

One thing I could do is go and sort out Mr WithaY's dressing table.  I was browsing through a gift catalogue which arrived with a weekend newspaper, trying to find something that wasn't related to golf or coffee** and I spotted a Gentleman's Tidy.  Something like this, but made in faux leather rather than wood.

I seriously considered ordering it as a Christmas present, and then I thought a bit harder about what tends to occupy Mr WithaY's dressing table.

Among the usual litter of aftershave bottles, toiletries, cufflink boxes and a clothes brush, yesterday there were:

Several pairs of clean pants, neatly folded and waiting to be put away in a drawer
A plastic fork
A huge heap of old receipts and scraps of paper, none of them necessary for tax purposes
A coin sorter (almost empty)
Several coins
String
Cord (not the same as string)
A book about neolithic cooking
Hazelnuts, foraged and then forgotten about, in the manner of an absent-minded squirrel

I don't think there is a Gentleman's Tidy in existence which is designed to cope with that little lot.

Back to the drawing board.

Also, how do they sort out their laundry on Star Trek, eh?  I've seen evidence of a bar, a barber and beauty parlour, several places to eat, even showers, but never any laundry facilities.  I like to imagine that deep in the bowels of the Starship Enterprise is a dry-cleaners, manned by a grouchy Ferengi.








*Shout down stairs "Can you please come and move all your clothes, it's a pigsty up here."

**Slim pickings, I can tell you.

Restoration

This week I have been back at work. I have been out for just over 4 weeks, and it felt very odd going back up to London. The journey was ok though, I listened to the excellent Chris and Thomas on my iPhone on the way up, and slept, and looked out of the window and played solitaire.

I started walking from Waterloo, but by the time I got to Westminster I had lost my enthusiasm and hopped on the Tube the rest of the way.

In the time I've been away, we have moved back down to the first floor (Second Floor, American readers...the one up the stairs from the Ground floor. There's a clue in the name.) The new accommodation is cramped, noisy, hot and lacking in storage space. Just like the place I left last year then. Fan-tas-tic.

Everyone hates it, there is nowhere to put anything (paperless office my arse) and the coffee machine is nowhere to be found.

I don't actually drink coffee very much but it is still distressing to see colleagues wandering around the floorplate forlornly, mugs in hand, whimpering sadly as they go through caffeine withdrawal.

On my boss' advice I phoned up the departmental counsellor, who kindly agreed to see me that afternoon. That was tough. She was very kind though, and helpful, and gave me leaflets on Coping With Shite* and I am going back to see her next week. If it helps, I'm all for it.

I fell asleep on the train and slept all the way home, waking up in a panic in Salisbury wondering if I'd missed my stop and was halfway to Exeter.

I have worked at home today and yesterday and am back into London tomorrow. Work have been marvellous, but my God they must be tired of me by now. I feel like every week has provided a new, freakishly horrible, drama to disrupt life and add to the huge hot bale of stress I am now carrying around on the back of my neck. Which is nice.

Other news: The cleaning team came on Friday and did a good job. They were apologising as they left that they hadn't got round to doing the ironing, but to be fair they had slaved over the vile filth in the kitchen and bathroom, both of which were left spotless.

One of them said to me "Once we get on top of the place we'll have time to do some extra jobs." This got me thinking of stuff to ask them to do**. Excellent. I have come up with a few ideas, but more would be nice. Suggestions welcomed, obviously.

In fact, I felt so guilty at the thought of them having to tackle the appalling mountain of WithaY ironing that I spent an hour and a half yesterday evening doing a load of it, whilst watching reruns of "How Clean Is Your House". Some people really do live like pigs.

There was a couple who were repeatedly described as "former London high-fliers" who now run a farm in Kent. They both looked like leftover hippies, and their house was ankle deep in shit. Literally. The floors (and they were carpeted floors at that) were encrusted with mud, hair and dung. Lovely. Even their bedroom floor. And these were allegedly intelligent people. Fuckwits.

I was outraged, which is a good state of mind to be ironing in.

The weather today has taken a turn for the Apocalyptic. High winds, driving rain and the constant sound of squealing tyres and blaring car horns all combine for a relaxing background ambiance as I try to read the 450 emails in my work inbox.

Ah well. Could be worse. And when it is, I will let you know.


*I think. I'd need to look at it again to confirm the title

**Top of the list is repainting the dog shed, followed by chopping kindling, then clearing out the garage. I'm not sure our contract covers that, I'll need to check.

Mock The Leek

Ah the joys of not sleeping. So, rather than going and doing something useful like...oh, I don't know...the ironing maybe, I am posting photos of Mystery Vegetables for you to identify for me.

We could have a competition maybe?

Name That Green. Now That's What I Call Greenery. Green Or No Green. I have a great format in my head, if only I could come up with a great title.

I might need to call the BBC with my ideas tomorrow.

Anyhoo. Picture 1, an arty leaf shot:



Picture 2, displaying the rhubarb-like stems:



Picture 3. Admire the mighty WithaY vegetable patch! Look upon our works of cultivation and despair, humanity!



The basil's still not dead, which I think is rather impressive.

Also, due to popular demand* I am posting up the photos of the Huge Fire we witnessed the other week.

Scene 1 was taken from inside the coffee shop, Scene 2 was taken from the steps outside the coffee shop. I was all set to run much closer and take Scene 3, but then my brain managed to finally make itself heard and stopped me from endangering my life.





Other news: I am waiting expectantly for our new cleaning team to turn up. I have tidied up specially. When the lady from the agency came round to assess the house the other week, she said "Oh good - they like having to do houses with a bit of dust!"

I was mortified.

Also, am officially back at work today, although I suspect that the work will mostly consist of reassembling my laptop and trying to get back onto the work intranet and email system. I am going up to London on Monday which will be a bit of a big step, but hopefully it will be ok.

Aha. Domestic assistance has arrived. Marvellous. I'll go and put the kettle on.


Bah. Just noticed that this post has the time I started it at the bottom, ie late last night, rather than the time I actully posted it, ie at about 0900 today. If I were more technically competent (and could be arsed) I'd amend it, but sadly I will have to pretend I meant to do it this way.

Yes, I am a time traveller. I hope you're impressed.


*Youngest Sis was grumbling that she hadn't seen them.

Filth!

That's what we've been living in for the last few months. And not the fun sort, either.

I have been slowly becoming aware that our hoover was on the way out. Well, it's a Dyson.

What do you call them? It isn't a hoover. It isn't a vacuum cleaner. And saying "the Dyson" sounds really pretentious and crap.

Anyhoo.

It was on the way out. I knew this because it was failing to suck up all the dirt, fluff, hair and biscuit crumbs from the floor. That wasn't too bad. I would just kind of coax the bits it didn't want onto the the wooden floor and then sweep it up with a dustpan and brush.

Then, a development. When you pressed the pedal thingy to change the angle of the handle, a large and dismaying pile of grey crud was spat out the back.

Again, that would get swept up with a brush, rather missing the point of having a gadget to do the job in the first place.

The final straw was when you pulled the hose bit out to clean the stairs, and a HUGE grey fluffy pile of crud, gravel and assorted filth was coughed out the back of the hoover* onto the floor.

Eventually, I had to accept that we needed to replace the hardware. Time for the sad one-way trip to the tip. There was a 21-hose salute as we waved it goodbye. It was about 16 years old which I think is pretty good going, to be fair.

And so, on a sunshiny Saturday morning, Mr WithaY and I went to Argos. I can honestly say that it was about the best cleaning appliance shopping experience we could have wished for.

We looked in the book, found what we wanted, filled in the little bit of paper, went to the "pay here" terminal, typed in the details, entered the payment card, did all that "enter PIN now" stuff and then sat and waited for 5 minutes till they brought us a new Dyson.

Fantastic.

Barely any human interaction at all. It was like internet shopping, but quicker.

And then I came home and played with it.

Oh, the filth. The FILTH. The filth. Yes, it was that bad.

Put it this way: We emptied the filthbucket 5 times. In one afternoon. That is going some, I reckon. I did go a bit mad and clean the rugs, the curtains, the sofas, the cushions and all the carpets. And the wooden floor. And the lightshades.

But even so. We were a five-bucket house. Ugh.

Still. Nice and clean now. I might do the car next. Or offer to go round to the neighbours, just for comparison purposes.

Other news: Went to a family party on Saturday night. Was a surpise birthday do for a cousin, and she genuinely had no idea it was planned. It was lovely to see so many members of the family, some of whom I haven't seen since I got married, 14 years ago.

As we were leaving, one of them said to Mr WithaY "Don't leave it 14 years till we see you again", to which he replied "It takes me that long to get over seeing you lot." Heh.

He loves us really. Even though we're mostly Welsh.

Also went and saw fatherinlaw WithaY on Sunday. He needed to go to the shops as he had run out of groceries, and since he got rid of his car** it is a struggle for him.

We loaded him and his wheelchair into the car and headed for Tescos ("that bunch of bastards") in Blandford. En route we discussed immigration ("Hungarians. Bastards"), politics ("Gordon Brown. That bastard") and the weather (nope, that was ok).

Once in the shop I scooted round with a little trolley picking up a ton of carrots and parsnips (more soup is planned) while Mr WithaY wheeled his dad and the grocery list round. It was like watching the chariot race in Ben Hur. I think we're doing it again next week.


*Yes, I know. Old habits die hard.

**We finally persuaded him that being unable to turn his head or feel his feet was making him a dangerous driver. Thankfully.

Summer

Is here. It's official. I did all the washing at the weekend and it was all dry by the end of Sunday evening. Marvellous.

Domestic bliss is a big heap of clean, air-dried towels. Not that I have any option to the traditional green drying approach, not having a tumble dryer.

I like to tell people it's because I disapprove of their impact on the environment but really it's because I can't fit one in the kitchen. I'd far rather be perceived as an idealistic eco-warrior than a whiny middle-aged woman who wants a bigger kitchen*.

On second thoughts, my eco-warrior credentials are rather disastrously impaired by the large 4-by-4 I drive. So bollocks to that, then.

Hey, I use my acoustic guitar sometimes. That must count for something in the grand scheme of energy-saving things.

Other news: I bought a copy of the film "Bullshot" a couple of weeks ago. It came out in the early 1980s, possibly 1983, and went nowhere at the cinema. It's an affectionate spoof of the Bulldog Drummond genre, with an excellent British cast featuring several comedians (Mel Smith and Billy Connolly for example). There were a few films like that around then. Billy Connolly was in "Water" at about the same time I think.

Anyway, we had a copy of it on video, and that video had long since worn out. We looked for it on DVD for years, but no joy. Until....ta-daaaa! Amazon had it in stock. Yay! I ordered a copy, it arrived, we were delighted.

Until we watched it, that is.

In a concession to modernity, they'd changed the format to Widescreen (no idea what the ratio/aspect thingy is, sorry). Rather than stretch the fim sideways to make it fit, they'd lopped the top and bottom off it. This meant that for many scenes, the actors' faces were missing off the top of the screen. Fuckwits.

It was still an enjoyable film, but it was irritating.

I'm no expert but I would think twice about chopping the ends off something to make it fit before checking that it wouldn't ruin whatever it was I was chopping. Gah.

Also. Domestic goddess status creeps ever closer. I borrowed a steam cleaner from my Youngest Sis and had a go at doing the tiles in the shower. Not terribly effective, but that might have been my technique. And it got rust stains off the limestone floor tiles in the bathroom.

However, I would suggest to anyone who is remotely interested that a day when it hits 30 degrees outside is probably not the wisest day to start steam cleaning the house.

Back at work today, catching up after a week out of the office. Nice to see everyone, and even nicer that the weather has stayed fine. Makes the world of difference.

*Note to any readers who've been to my house: Yes, yes, I know I have a feckin' huge kitchen. Sssssh. Don't spoil it for the others.