I BLAME my mother, who (she'll disembowel me with a melon-baller for saying this) isn't exactly one for the pinny, but I've never been particularly fond of housework.
All that hoovering, dusting and ironing (not to mention scrubbing and polishing) is such a thankless task. Give it a couple of days, not to mention the efforts of three scruffy children, and the house is back to its original state. So I tend not to b
other in the first place.
My first summer job on leaving school only cemented my belief that a tidy house is a sure sign of a woman with too much time on her hands. (Not that I'm one to mock the afflicted, but look at Anthea Turner – a lot of good all that buffing of curtain rails and dusting of light bulbs did her.) A quarter of a century ago, an 18-year-old me was a chambermaid at an upmarket Edinburgh hotel, where, after a short induction period, I was given sole responsibility for a whole corridor. I even had my own store cupboard, equipped with more mini bottles of shampoo and tiny bars of soap than any small person could ask for. Shower caps? Shoe buffers? I was your woman.
Every morning I would get up at some unearthly hour to scrub the toilets and strip the soiled beds of strangers. And, though I say it myself, I became quite efficient at it. So efficient, in fact, that I managed to complete the task in half the time allotted. Which left me free to decamp to my cupboard, whereupon I'd wash my hair (well, what else was I supposed to do with all that shampoo?), then curl up in a bale of freshly laundered towels for a wee nap. It was as cushy a number as I was likely to get. Unfortunately, my little ruse was rumbled, and I was rewarded for my super-efficiency with an extra corridor of rooms to clean.
All these years on, I'm as speedy as ever when it comes to housework. Sure, I cut corners. My skirting boards probably aren't as spick and span as they might be, and I can't remember the last time I took a feather duster to my Venetian blinds. But I have the grand dame of Edinburgh hotels to thank for my being able to fold a mean hospital corner on the children's beds (I draw the line at folding a little triangle into the end of my toilet rolls, something Mother still does – but only in the downstairs loo when visitors are expected).
For all my domestically challenged tendencies, however, an occasional urge to scrub still takes hold – and, once started, it can be difficult to stop. So far this week, I have found myself ironing my bedding. (Do people really do that on a regular basis? Wrestling with a super-king-size fitted sheet in one hand and a scalding-hot iron in the other is not an experience I wish to repeat in a hurry.) I have emptied the kitchen cupboards, cleaned them out and discarded any foodstuffs that predate the birth of my children. (Where did that tin of tuna in barbecue sauce come from anyway, and did it really survive one house move and two kitchen colour schemes?)
I have also discovered a 13-year-old tin of hardened paint under the kitchen sink, several unused pairs of rubber gloves (if my mother taught me anything, it is this: no matter how unsavoury the task, a pair of Marigolds makes anything manageable) and some Brasso (despite the fact that I have no brass in the house, nor would I be likely to polish it if I had).
Unfortunately, I had to call a halt to make the children's tea. Now, where did I put that tuna?
rwalker@scotlandonsunday.com
