They say dull women have tidy homes

M

Y mother was fastidious about cleanliness and tidiness when I was young — to an extreme. Unless the house was in tip-top shape, she would hide if somebody knocked on the door. And, some of this must have rubbed off on me, because I find myself apologising profusely if someone calls in unexpectedly and finds me in disarray. As happened the other day.

My neighbour has a lovely spanking-new house. I cannot compete. I’m aware of this. But, when she popped in to say hello the other day, one of my offspring answered the door in night attire. It was nearly lunchtime. Two offspring were moving out, so all of their stuff was dumped in the dining area of the kitchen. I had stripped the doors of the kitchen presses with a view to painting them. Some of the stripped material was thrown randomly around — and had been for a few weeks. Pure laziness on my part. The surface of the kitchen table was covered with ‘stuff ’. It was like a scene from Britain’s Biggest Hoarders.

I was on the back foot from the get-go. Not a coherent word emanated from my mouth. I was really lucky to have scones in the house and offered her one and she valiantly cleared a tiny space at the filthy kitchen table. Then I took the jam out of the fridge and handed it to her — and lo and behold — there was a thick film of green mould. Now I was grovelling. I thought about running away. When I was regaling my son with my tale of woe later, he gave me some solace by reminding me that, had the dog been alive, we could have had dog poo at regular intervals throughout the room. He had become incontinent prior to his recent demise. That would have been a step too far.