My home sweet, but not so neat, home

Some folk are obsessive cleaners and whizz from room to room, Wielding a feather duster or

pushing a hefty broom, Shining up their windows,

polishing parquet floors, Then taking their dusters and cleaning props, they start again — outdoors!

They hammer down the daffodils to make them grow in line, And force trees to grow in neater shapes by binding them with twine. And Lord help any buttercups pushing their heads above the lawn; Those pretty yellow flowers

will be slain before the dawn.

Cleaners rise at half-past silly

and go to bed quite late, Terrified a speck of dirt should enter through their gate. I’m not one of those folk; come

on, you must be kidding! The day will never, ever come when muck dictates my bidding.

There’s finger marks on my

table, handprints on my glass, And a wild and woolly wilderness, where once upon was grass. My carpets need a vaccing, my

sideboard’s thick with dust, And my garden tools are covered in a pretty shade of rust.

My kitchen needs a bottoming, folk are sticking to the floor, And a Christmas wreath from two years ago still hangs on my front door. God thought I could do better than move muck from A to Zee, And for all the wondrous words in the world, he gave me eyes to see.

Every time I get the urge to

clean my scruffy manse, I’m distracted by words like ‘prattling’ and even ‘happenstance’. Spiders spin their cobwebs and

decorate the ceiling While I keep my eyes in the dictionary, now that’s far more appealing.

If you admit your house needs

more polish than a smidge, And there’s something green and hairy growing deep in your fridge! Then for all you mucky housewives, and I may well mean you, Here is an alternative,

something nicer you can do.

Just throw off your pinny, grab

your bag and visit me. I’ll put the kettle on and make

us both a cup of tea. I warn you I’ve not dusted, so please hide that look of horror — I know that if I shift that muck . . . it’ll be back again tomorrow!

Joy James, Nottingham.