Once upon a time I watched a very daft programme about some very daft housewives. The kind who hoover at four o’clock in the morning and polish their silver in their sleep. Their houses were their lives in a certifiable kind of way. Their families a whole lot less important than the possible horror of spilt milk or muddy footprints through their immaculate kitchens.
It made me want to cry. I like housekeeping twice as much as the next woman,but since I started
But these women were housewive extremists. Thouroughly demented by the urge to do the laundry at eleven o’clock at night and steam-iron their bedlinen while their husbands where still lying beneath it. They were so busy making sure the house ran like a military operation they forgot to have a real life. To love and laugh and eat picnics on the living room carpet. They were kind of dead.
But fellow Housekeepers, shame on me, they had some great ideas, and last night in a moment of personal housewife extremis I put one of them into practise.
Fill your tub with steaming hot water last thing at night. Said the crazy housewife.
So I did.
Now add four big scoops of biological laundry powder and go to bed.
So I did.
And lo and behold I woke up to a house that smelled like it had been hung out to dry on a Summers day. A bath so sparkly I can see my face in it, and a bathmat that looks like I bought it yesterday.
There is, it seems some method in their madness.