I think the local farmer read my blog yesterday. I awoke to the sound of him cranking up his engine and revving in that way only tractors can. And then the ominous sound of splattering liquid manure hitting wet grass. Within seconds, the stench filled the room. It was no longer possible to lie in bed, at least without a gas mask.
Having been forced from our olfactorily-challenging bed, we were in the process of getting dressed, and I casually remarked to CG that he was yet to try out our new vacuum cleaner. I mean, we've had it six weeks or so now, I said. For a split second, his face registered complete disinterest until he realized the consequences this might have, and hastily rearranged his features into what he thought was a regretful, humble expression. It was priceless. Hmm, he sighed thoughtfully, in a way that implied that the very next thing he did would be to haul out the said vacuum cleaner and vroom round the house. I laughed inwardly, in that tolerant, benign manner that wives sometimes have when the husband is behaving really well in most other areas, and it thus doesn't matter, at this particular moment, that he never touches the damn thing. Ask me again later when I'm in a bad mood, and the tolerant benignity (great word, I just discovered it) will be but a distant memory.
I am telling you all this partly for the benefit of my dear brother, whose comment on my last post was something rather cutting about me not being either reluctant or a housewife. He has a point, in that I spend far less time complaining about housework than I used to, but this does not mean I don't do it. Oh no. Far from it - but it simply doesn't feature in the top three of my what-I-love-doing-list. I am getting more and more resigned in my old age, and have taken to delegating wherever possible, in order to train my children for life in the big bad world of adulthood. They moan and groan and roll their eyes like the monsters in Where the Wild Things Are, but I stand firm. They declare that they don't want to be grown-ups, if cleaning is such a big part of life. (For some of us.) We were looking at photos of me in my early teens - Hedda needed a picture of children in school uniform, and I was glad to oblige - and Gaia said, wow, you looked so different then. How so, I asked, apart from 27 years of wear and tear? Well, just ... young, and carefree, and full of hope, she mused. Apparently I now look as if I have given up. Honestly. Any more comments like that and I'll be off to nightclubs every evening, not wearing a coat in winter, and culturing mould in assorted vessels in my bedroom.
Having been forced from our olfactorily-challenging bed, we were in the process of getting dressed, and I casually remarked to CG that he was yet to try out our new vacuum cleaner. I mean, we've had it six weeks or so now, I said. For a split second, his face registered complete disinterest until he realized the consequences this might have, and hastily rearranged his features into what he thought was a regretful, humble expression. It was priceless. Hmm, he sighed thoughtfully, in a way that implied that the very next thing he did would be to haul out the said vacuum cleaner and vroom round the house. I laughed inwardly, in that tolerant, benign manner that wives sometimes have when the husband is behaving really well in most other areas, and it thus doesn't matter, at this particular moment, that he never touches the damn thing. Ask me again later when I'm in a bad mood, and the tolerant benignity (great word, I just discovered it) will be but a distant memory.
I am telling you all this partly for the benefit of my dear brother, whose comment on my last post was something rather cutting about me not being either reluctant or a housewife. He has a point, in that I spend far less time complaining about housework than I used to, but this does not mean I don't do it. Oh no. Far from it - but it simply doesn't feature in the top three of my what-I-love-doing-list. I am getting more and more resigned in my old age, and have taken to delegating wherever possible, in order to train my children for life in the big bad world of adulthood. They moan and groan and roll their eyes like the monsters in Where the Wild Things Are, but I stand firm. They declare that they don't want to be grown-ups, if cleaning is such a big part of life. (For some of us.) We were looking at photos of me in my early teens - Hedda needed a picture of children in school uniform, and I was glad to oblige - and Gaia said, wow, you looked so different then. How so, I asked, apart from 27 years of wear and tear? Well, just ... young, and carefree, and full of hope, she mused. Apparently I now look as if I have given up. Honestly. Any more comments like that and I'll be off to nightclubs every evening, not wearing a coat in winter, and culturing mould in assorted vessels in my bedroom.
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