A little sunshine and I’ve gone a bit loopy. I’m determined the house needs gutted and cleaned before the turn of our garden. I won’t embarrass myself by revealing how much I spent on cleaning stuff.
No bottle of Zoflora was safe from this determined spring-cleaning shopper. Pink Stuff was launched into the trolley with wanton abandon before being bundled into waiting bags. A few months ago I’d have been stopped and accused of stockpiling but I’m fairly certain the shop staff took one look at me and realised I was not a woman to be challenged.
I’m so overdue a haircut, I’m easily mistaken for the Back to the Future and anyone with their faculties intact knows my being in Home Bargains this early in the morning means I’m on a mission.
Have I done actually anything with this excessive spree yet? No. I was too exhausted after the shopathon BUT I feel better knowing it’s just waiting for the precise moment the mood strikes.
Something about the potential of spring and the promise it brings of blossoming new life, makes me want to make everything clean, pretty and ‘just right’. I’m not sure if being in lockdown for over a year heightens this? Surely not?
Spring cleaning has been recorded for generations and must feature in some 1940s guide to being an excellent housewife. Not a publication I’ve read but maybe one to keep in mind.
We all started lockdown with such vigour and enthusiasm. The whole house was going to be redecorated and the garden landscaped. The 2021 gardening season is now upon us and our wee haven is still a state, albeit with a shiny new shed. Extensive growth has occurred during the last calendar year, for example, 12 months ago I planted myself on the sofa and I’ve grown considerably. Let’s not mention my pathetic attempt at growing actual vegetables.
The house of half-finished projects and good intentions is our happy home. Possibly the promise, panic even, of being able to welcome visitors again might prove a catalyst?
Naturally I start with the most obvious cause of contention, the kids’ wardrobes. I’m made to solemnly swear not to lose the plot by the very reluctant participant, eldest kid.
Claiming regularly, she has NOTHING to wear, I’m on a mission to prove her wrong. Apparently, my ‘middle aged lady’ opinion stating having nothing to wear is NOT the same as not knowing what she owns.
How could she possibly know? Most of it is stuffed down the back of her wardrobe in a crumpled heap. I might not iron their gear but I love the faint waft of fabric softener that escapes her clothes. The whiff of ‘comfort’ proving I want their clothes to be soft and clean. Subtly and subconsciously telling them I adore them.
She’s got her hands on some clothes I’ve kept since University. Favourite items I couldn’t bear to part with even though I’ve long accepted they’ll never again be worn by me.
Mum’s quiet moment of triumph
Precious Levi jeans, my beloved Camden Market suede coat and a few more much loved pieces are now in the hands of the younger generation. I can’t help but smile slightly when I heard her complain the waist was a little tight, at least she knows her frumpy middle aged Mum wasn’t always such.
Littlest kid, my next victim, has her sister’s discarded items to wade through as well. Drawers are emptied, clothes either returned or launched into a bin bag destined for the local charity shop.
It seems not only my waistline has grown during lock down, the kids have sprouted as well, as four bin bags are crammed full.
And then of course the weather changes
Middle kid smugly reminds me she doesn’t have a wardrobe (her choice) and all her clothes are ‘fine’. Fair enough, the four bags already in the boot, which will now be driven round for weeks prior to drop off, are poof enough of a job well done.
I head to my own wardrobe but I get distracted and strip/remake the bed putting away the big winter cosy blanket at the same time. Naturally the very next day we have hail stones and snow. My bad. Sorry about that. At least I’ve got four bin bags of clothes to keep me warm if I get cold.
