January 2023

Poor Stacey Solomon has been subjected to an ear-bashing when she admitted to changing her bed sheets once a week. I tend to agree with the nay-sayers, because I’m more of a once-a-month girl myself. But as I said to Frank earlier when I was on chatting to him on the phone-in, I think this is plenty. It’s also a seasonal issue, because I would feel more guilty about using the tumble drier to dry all the sheets than I would about them smelling less than fragrant after a couple of weeks. During the summer I change them more often, when they can blow merrily in the breeze, and one is less at the mercy of our capricious climate.

But let’s be clear about this; changing the bed linen is a work-out. Our mattress is very deep, so deep that even the ‘Extra-Deep King Size Fitted Sheets’ sometimes struggle to fit. Many nails have been sacrificed at the altar of cleanliness in our bedroom, not to mention the risks to my dodgy back. We were so tired of the sheet untucking itself on a nightly basis that LSB got to googling solutions and made an investment. Cue the arrival of four ‘bed suspenders’; curious little black straps with clips (STOP IT EVERYONE, I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE THINKING) which secure the sheet in place. I’m not being hyperbolic when I say that they’ve changed our lives.

Down in Bangor by the sea, the Mothership was also experiencing mattress issues. Her elderly mattress was banjaxed and thus began the search for a new, thinner version, which wouldn’t result in strained ligaments and visits to the chiropractor after changing day. A helpful gent in the bed emporium she visited, assured her that a thinner mattress was no worse for her back and so she procured one on Tuesday. I am eagerly awaiting her consensus.

Should you want to feel a semblance of cleanliness, but can’t be arsed with the whole palaver, then I advise you to change the pillowcases, even the duvet cover if you must. After reading KC Davis’ book, How to Keep House when You’re Drowning, I’m all about life’s shortcuts. We all have tasks we will prioritise, and for me, having clean clothes and some home-cooked dinners is much more important than the bedsheets. I also fear I’m suffering from PTSD from the constant laundering of sheets when the children were very small and sometimes peed the bed, or more ghastly still, when they came into our bed, and peed in it. The misery. The days were the trenches, I’m telling you. The absolute worse though, was when you stripped the bed and forgot about it, and had to start the whole bloody rigmarole at eleven o’clock of an evening. Any wonder mummy drinks?

My advice? Do what works for you. There are cleaning videos galore on the old Insta, and I said recently, I enjoy watching them, as they soothe me, a little bit like white noise, mere chewing gum for the eyes. But do I clean like that? Hell no. Suit yourself is my motto, and as long as I’m not lying on toast crumbs or an excess of pet hair*, then I’m happy enough to stick to my monthly schedule and not lose sleep over it, (boom boom).

*I realize that this will differ person to person. I imagine some of you have the dry bokes just reading that. I apologise.

Haven’t I gone and got myself hooked on Instagram. And once again, I am plumbing the depths of banality, because I am watching video after video of CLEANING HABITS. The old me wouldn’t have understood why anyone would watch a randomer scrub their toilet. What levels of stultifying boredom would you have to reach, I’d have wondered, before you’d willingly observe someone dust their skirting boards? And yet, every day Instagram is helpfully suggesting new people for me to follow, the likes of @TidyDad and @nonstopmumma. The algorithms tell me that I need to follow any account with ‘washy-washy scrub scrub’ as their tag-line, and reels pop up with stupidly enthusiastic women (almost always women) saying: ‘come clear your plughole with me!’ You may not think this is the most tantalising of click bait but there I am, all, ‘Would you believe the shine off that stainless steel sink! Behold the gleam of that hob!!

I know we’re all suckers for a ‘before and after’ post, and I can understand how we could be excited to witness the radical transformation of say, a lovely living room, but tidying a desk? Sprucing up the ensuite? Really? Who’s going to hand over their valuable time to watch that? Well, me, as it happens. And clearly, I’m not alone, given the thousands of followers clocked up by these cleaning gurus. They are the superstars of Insta, their microphones replaced by mops and their guitars with tubes of grout-buster.

Frankly I’m amazed, but maybe it just sums up how small my world has shrunk since Covid, and how happy I am to keep it that way. I’ve mentioned it before, but I’m not a natural housekeeper. I find everything a struggle, from stocking my cupboards with essentials or keeping the surfaces clear for more than ten seconds. It runs in my family. Anytime I heard the hoover when I was a child I asked, ‘Who’s coming?’ LSB is as bad. He sends me little messages when I’m at work, listing his accomplishments. ‘Dishwasher empty!’ he will declare, or ‘Towel wash on!’ I’ll reply with the clapping hands emojis, with no trace of irony since I’m delighted that he’s taking the initiative. Let’s face it, it’s no given that I’ll do it any time soon.

Perhaps these videos work because they offer clarity. I have a shocking habit of over-complicating everything, whether that be washing up or cooking, you can bet your nelly that I’ll make it more of a ball-ache than it needs to be. This tendency of mine only serves to impede progress, of course. I think in a very binary fashion, assuming that we are either good or bad at housework and that I fall into the latter category. I can’t accept that we can just develop habits and routines and try to adhere to them, at least some of the time.

The tyranny of housework has of course been exacerbated by the pets, quadrupling the work load as I rinse out food tines, lint-roller the chairs and mop and spray when one of them takes a surprise poo somewhere. Always a joy. Now I’m also running round scooping up the bowls after they eat. I wouldn’t want anyone falling into Tilly’s dish and suffering cuts and bruises.

So for a person like me, who struggles and gets distracted easily, a motivational video seems to help. If I have to watch someone hoovering their sofa in real time to simplify it for me, then maybe these videos serve a purpose. Provided of course, that I don’t just get suckered in to scrolling through Insta for two hours. That’s a whole other challenge. But the truth is, that yes, a clean house is actually possible, if I just take fifteen minutes here and there and get on with it. And do you know what else occurred to me, (and then I’ll stop chuntering on), but I always take the piss out of Marie Kondo, but when I saw those boys cleaning up the stadiums at the World Cup I was so impressed. I started reading all about Japanese rituals and how they respect their spaces and take pride in them and I thought to myself, my children have a lot to learn! And me too, I have a lot to learn. I love my house, and I love having people in to it, so maybe I should try to enjoy caring for it. Does that sound mad? Probably yes, but I’m sure you’re used to me now.

I never cease to amaze myself. Yesterday, tired and queasy after an evening’s over-exuberance with an ill-advised mix of alcoholic minerals, I determined that a resolution was needed. New year, new me! Leaner, calmer, less likely to succumb to liver cirrhosis. But today, feeling sprightlier and buoyed by sunlight, I thought to myself, isn’t January a bloody stupid time to be embracing the new? Friends, we are far too fragile for those shenanigans. Perhaps if we lived in balmier climes, where we could leave the house without a kettleful of water to sling over the windscreen, cocooned in a heavily padded coat, we could entertain such notions. But here? Now? It’s a flat no.

I am unconvinced that now’s the time to starve ourselves, or subject our bodies to a punishing regime. Nor should continue the excesses of the season, because that way lies coronary failure. But to put the brakes on all the good stuff, all at once? I think not. One reason I am agin such antics is that presently, I have a fridge full of leftovers, of which only a small proportion is of a healthy variety. I have enough cheese to choke a donkey, and half a bottle of Oyster Bay Sauvignon Blanc. I don’t care what a coq-au-vin recipe dictates, but wine of that calibre is going straight down my throat. There’s a reason for a mediocre vin de table at £4.50 in Sainsbury’s, and I suggest it’s for a casserole.

As I type, I’m drinking coffee with a slab of panna tone. It is the last hefty slice, and I am enjoying every last festive morsel. But what does one DO with all the other leftovers? Let me help. First up, I have a white bloomer languishing on the counter which I shall concocting it into a bread-and-butter pudding, with dates instead of raisins, because I have a packet of those I intended to stuff with cheese for a New Year’s Eve nibble, but couldn’t be bothered. LSB refers to bread and butter pudding as ‘that eggy mess’ but I shall make it in ramekins and share with friends, who aren’t pass-remarkable ingrates.

I’ve a glut of tomatoes softening in the fridge, which I’ll whizz up into a soup. I can plonk mozzarella into this, which ticks two boxes for wastage.  Another alternative would be a sauce for pizza bagels which LSB lovingly makes in the morning, in his air fryer. I’ve never seen him take to a kitchen appliance the way he has to his air-fryer. He’s dying about it, as am I because I don’t have to think up lunches for the children, a job I loathed because they are fussy little buggers. The rest of the blue cheese I will freeze to make a dip in the future.

It’s clear to see that I’m not cutting out the fat and sugar this January. But I am trying to cut down on waste, so that’s a start. Other realistic goals are: spending less time scrolling on my phone; doing on-line yoga at least three times a week and keeping my study uncluttered. I think those are doable, and not nauseatingly sanctimonious. If you’re doing anything yourselves let me know- or harass me occasionally to see whether I’ve kept on task. Hold me accountable! And a very Happy New Year to you all.