Worst exotic Marigold hotel

Two of the great advantages of lockdown have been a) not having to give much of a toss about tidying and/or cleaning the hoose, as nobody who feels they have the right to an opinion on such things has been around to see you at your slovenly worst. I speak for myself alone, here. I am sure all this timeon-hands lark has resulted in many a gleaming set of glassware and a plethora of shiny brass. Both of which are notable by the absence round our house, I freely admit. Although there are a lot of very neat and tidy lists piled up around the joint. Very few of which have any ticks on them.

Of course, now that we are allowed to let people over the door, albeit in a carefully limited fashion, a certain sense of housework-ish hypocrisy has crept into my life. I have found myself running a furtive finger along the surfaces and wondering whether my visitors would mind more if they succumbed to botulism rather than Covid. It’s a quandary and no mistake. Although anyone who arrived within my walls to find a sparkling, tidy, well-organised environment would probably fall into a coma or at the very least, a form of deep stupor, fuelled by shock and disbelief.

And b), the second great advantage of lockdown? Slobbing about in old, comfy clothes. “How could they tell?” I hear you mutter, as my increasing predilection for less is more where personal adornment and decoration is concerned has even led to the partial closing up of my ear piercings because

I couldn’t be faffed putting on earrings for the past four months. Amazing the things you find you can live without, though even the charity shops (politely) feel they can live without my excess jewels in these straitened times, as rubbish doesn’t quite begin to cover most of it. The good stuff’s in the will for the step-kids, cousins and selected chums. Guys, you have been warned…

Not that I have gone the whole hog and quit the use of belts and stout foundation garments. There are some standards it would not be wise to let slip, so to speak, in any way, shape or form. And generally, it has to be admitted, casual (to put it kindly) has long been the default dress setting in our house. But that doesn’t mean that we cannot attire ourselves appropriately when the occasion demands. We got ourselves well togged up for an in-house night at the opera recently which was a serious shock to most of our friends who saw the photies on Facebook and wondered what we had done with the real Muddie-Broons. And said so, en masse.

It was one step from there to finding the rozzers at the door, determined to gain access to the rear of the property to dig up the patio, expecting to find the recognisably ill-clad corpses of the couple we were obviously attempting to impersonate.

Sometimes, you just can’t dress it up any other way...

P.S. I may have to go and lie down in a darkened room. The dishwasher is playing up. Doom. Since it and the Husband (and not necessarily in that order) are the two things I would manhandle out of the house if it was burning down, this is no small matter. Given that our dishwasher is 26 years old in human years (and probably a lot more in appliance age, given the prevalence of planned obsolescence), it surely cannot go on much longer. If we’re not careful we’ll have to succumb to one of these fancy integrated numbers with a Nasa control panel and an instruction book rivalling the complete wordy works of Sir Walter Scott.

Now, this may seem like a first world problem in these days of national and international crisis but I resolutely and selfishly refuse to go back to the era when my redoubtable Auntie Maisie was heard to declaim, up to her Marigolds in suds, that a really good (human) washer of dishes could (and should) keep two (human) driers going. I may, like many in lockdown, be looking for ways to fill the empty, wasted hours I previously used to spend recklessly enjoying myself but I draw the line at that. Added to which I would have to find an extra person to con into living with us, in order to fulfil the twodrier requirement, and although things are pretty bad in certain quarantined quarters, I don’t know anyone who’s in dire enough straits to fall for an invitation like that.

Then again, in the name of mastering new skills, there may well be online courses on virtual dishwasher repair that could come in unexpectedly handy. Or perhaps we could magic up a replica with the aid of a 3D printer. After all, they’re now producing (alleged) food by this means so it’s only fair that science should also provide the means of cleaning up after it.

If you thought chlorinated chicken was bad (and you were right), just wait till you try printed KFC. Watch this space...

“I would have to find an extra person to con into living with us to fulfil the two-drier requirement

The dishwasher is playing up again... and I don’t mean my husband!