Pollyism of the week
The words “love means never having to say you’re sorry” echoed around the world in the 1970s. I’ve never seen Love Story, the movie from which the famous quote came, but apparently it’s very sad, plus it contains a very silly message.
I have a better definition of love: “Love means hiring a cleaner for two hours a week because wifey/girlfriend appears on the edge of a nuclear meltdown.”
That is love like no other. Now I’m starting to believe it truly could be a “love story”.
I decided when we moved into the big, old house that I’d do all my own housework. This was mainly due to the fact that I had no money to pay someone and I was sure I could manage. I’m a big ol’ tough warrior wahine. I can do anything and everything (with help from iron tablets and Panadol).
The thing about a 1907 villa close to the beach is that cobwebs and dust seem to be drawn in through some ghostly Edwardian vortex. You could actually write a novel in the dust on my furniture. I’m figuring the two dogs don’t help either, nor does the surfer partner who sheds sand like a snake sheds skin.
Sometimes I daydream that someone has invented a “house bomb”, like a flea bomb. You set it off, go out for a couple of hours and return to a dust-free, shiny, polished, de-doghaired, organised home that smells of wood polish, pine needles and scones baking in the oven. I can’t imagine the bomb has actually made scones, but the smell is there.
Last week, after swanting (swearing and ranting) for a good 15 minutes about my piglet children, my partner excused himself from the bedroom to make a phone call. I lay down and stared at the roof, noting the cobwebs and cracks. I sighed, then pondered the possibility of ever being able to plaster the thing myself. Unfortunately, just one step up a tiny ladder makes me feel faint. I spent another few moments wishing my children were desperate to be builders, electricians and plasterers, rather than actors, sports stars and Instagram models.
My man came back into the bedroom, lay down beside me and said quietly, “I’ve hired a cleaner for a few hours a week.”
It was like he’d just proposed, taken me out for a romantic dinner and sprinkled rose petals on my bed! This was a true act of love. He had recognised my cry for help – or should that be “swant for help”? – and come to the rescue. I rolled over with tears in my eyes and hugged him tight.
“I love you so much,” I squealed. “Thank you!”
“My pleasure,” he smiled in return. “Don’t tell me you’re crying again.”
I think I have a leak in my love container. Who cares, though, eh? At least once a week my house will smell like wood polish, pine needles and who knows what else. Maybe I can convince her to bake me a scone too.