Enter at Own Risk
Who among us ACTUALLY has time to clean?
If you find yourself thrusting your broom in the air, like this dude, and proclaiming - 'I. I have time to clean!' then my next question is for you -
When does this blessed event occur?
'But Ange, you work from home, you have PLENTY of time to clean.'
'I work in the city and volunteer at 43 organisations and run a bake stall cause I can and still my floors are swept, my bathroom glistens and my children are showered every.single.day.'
'You and your husband run a business together. That must be nice.' Says no one who ever worked with their partner ever.
'AND you're a children's author? How lovely. Dreaming up all those stories for our little darlings, whilst the sun streams through your polished windows and settles upon your glistening desktop.'
Yes. It IS lovely and yes, I am SO grateful to be able to do this - you have no idea. BUT the desktop ain't' gleaming and at what point should I actually polish those windows?
Please note the distinct lack of 'gleam' above
We have two adults in our house. Two able bodied people. Who work and study and who spend quality time with the little ones and who have absolutely NO TIME to clean.
'Get a cleaner and stop ya whingen,' the hoards bellow. But you know I would have to tidy up before he gets here, and ain't nobody got time for dat.
You see, I am attempting to write a BOOK. Several, if I'm lucky. This is dandy and indulgent and HARD.
I spend my days trying to coax Creativity onto a blank page. This is about as easy as coaxing my dog off our strawberry stained couch.
I'm cute, full of hair and I'm not going anywhere
All this 'coaxing' comes at a cost - a Health and Safety cost.
We're talking immune boosting, mould inducing GRIME.
I CANNOT write a book and clean. Hell, I can barely write a book and EAT.
Even as I attempted to hang up a token load of washing before, I had the idea for this blog post. And all the wit and dry humour that you are currently enjoying. So I abandoned said washing and ended up here. But over in the lounge room there is now this -
'That's not that bad,' I hear you say, 'You should see my bathroom.'
No, people, you should see MINE. But you won't, because if I posted a photo of that, I'd have the Department of Human Services knocking on my door.
Even if they did, I wouldn't answer it. Nothing could make me open that door at the moment.
Unless someone was in labour. Or bleeding. Or could prove they were being chased by an axe wielding manic. Barring any of those things, if that doorbell rings, I will hide under my desk, amongst the tumbleweeds of dust and dirt, hand over the dog's snout, and that is where we will remain until the sound of footsteps are but an echo in the distance.
And then, I'll go back to writing.