Housekeeper's Diary

Wake up to the boy’s names written in toothpaste on the bathroom cabinet. Debate having them adopted. Debate shutting the door and having a quick cry. Go in to their room and give them mean looks instead. Feel extraordinarily ineffective.
A new week. A new to-do list. A new book to be released (yay!).
Today then. Weeds to be picked along the front of the house. Frankincense oil to be dripped in to a new jar of avocado oil. (To keep the wrinkles at bay). An hour at the gym. A batch of gluten-free cookies to be baked. Scatter cushions to be laundered and re-scattered. Beds to be changed. A quick check to see whether the lawn has washed away overnight after so very much rain. The age-old debate of the housewife: whether it is dry enough to hang out the washing. Whether the Gods of the laundry basket are smiling down upon us today. Another cup of tea to smile in to, please?
More trashing of what was never really treasure. A shed full of bits of furniture we thought we might have room for but don’t. A bed frame still hanging about in the hallway, apparently without a home. A new bed in a box in the little bedroom. Must remember to buy butter. And to tell the darn milkman that it seems we just don’t need as much milk in the Summer, when bowls full of cosy porridge aren’t the order of the day. Must try harder not to stare in utter fascination at the beginning of a moustache on my son’s top lip. I am driving the poor child half crazy lately with my constant need to touch him, now that he is no longer so insistent on it.
Perhaps a curry to use up all the vegetables weeping in the fridge? A home to be found for the bright pink boxing gloves I use to hammer the heck out of the very ugly punch-bag on the patio. A minor worry about what I look like bouncing around the garden beating up a big stick. A more significant worry that after Finley took it in to his head to video me doing such a thing, I might just find myself going viral.
I do hope though, my Mum is watching from heaven. Laughing at my antics. Two and a half years on, the waves of missing her seem to be coming thicker and faster. Grief cloys. And stays. Perhaps grief and what to expect should be taught in class like so much algebra? I do not go to the grave. Can’t decide if it would help. Though I worry the grass has grown over her and feel guilt at every turn.
Changes this week. So many changes. To hush life back to what it should be. “Be regular and orderly in your life, so that you may be violent and original in your work.”. Lately my head is so full of all the shoulds of a life working on the internet,  that I have quite forgotten who I am. Tis a terrible thing to forget who you are. So ludicrously irresponsible. Perhaps the weekend away in the cobbled streets of York at the end of this month will help? Restore order and the beautiful violence of inspired work.
A note to self to deal with the halo of grey around my hairline. A few minutes taken to deal with the wobbly pile of books at the side of my bed. (So much for the neat order of a Kindle, when one cannot resist the pull of paper.) A slice of toast with marmite and cucumber. The handful of vitamins I swallow every day. Five minutes sat in silence in the chair in the corner of my room.
And now. A shower standing in lemon and peppermint oil to astonish my senses. My own name written in the steam of the bathroom cabinet. The defiant act of the demented Mother. 

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