64. Doing the housework: the mother (2/6)

I have decided that the time's right to straighten up things around here. I am going to go through this house from top to bottom, I will work my way down from the top floor. Meanwhile my husband will start in the attic of the out-building and work his way down.

We shall meet in the middle, in the garden. 

I had this planned for week 2 of lockdown so I have had plenty of time to think and prepare. Kids out of the house for a bit so it's now or never. 

It is a kind of giant spring clean cum declutter with some DIY thrown in. I've got the Hoover - the big one, a giant bin bag as I am expecting to find a lot of rubbish, a huge paper bag as I am going to recycle some of the rubbish so I can have a clear conscience, a big shopping bag to donate stuff (good for my conscience too). So off I go to the top floor to start with the bedroom where I can spy on the neighbours from. I have to lean forward quite a bit and it is quite dangerous but sometimes it's worth it. Not today though, pity, I just have to get on with the job then. 

I strip beds and empty dirty linen baskets and I shove all this down the stairs. I have this childish urge to jump into this fluffy mountain and skid down the stairs but I manage to resist and behave like an adult. I move furniture to hoover in all the hidden corners. I climb on chairs to straighten pictures and adjust light fittings. I dust and wipe and clean and shine. I even oil skylights hinges (now who would have thought of that? Well, I did!). I write on post-its what needs to be done and soon I have a pile of them stating what to buy, to order, to make, etc ...

To keep going I imagine myself in Downton Abbey: I am a new maid and I have been told to get this aisle of the building ready for important guests. Or I imagine I am running a bed-and-breakfast and the grand opening is approaching. And I have the music on full blast - a playlist of South African jazz - thinking that is bound to annoy the neighbours and get them out to see what's going on. And then I can spy on them. We all need a break. We all thrive on gossip and adventure. But adventure os hard to go by. So is gossip actually. 

I am in the second bedroom already, I am on top of the half-bunk. I feel good. I am achieving a lot here. This floor will be picture ready in not time. I am gazing down at my wonderful work, admiring the dust free beams and the neatly stacked books. I have in my right hand a very colourful feathery implement to exterminate any spider webs (I say sorry to the spiders beforehand and tell them to build an other home soon once the kids are back). Suddenly I spot a very annoying fleck of dust on the now spotless frame of the skylight window. I extend my arm but I can't reach. Of course the fact that I can't reach makes it stand out even more. I absolutely have to get this speck of fluff off my window frame. I cannot have such an imperfection spoil the picture. 

I have my two feet firmly on the mattress which means I can reach if I stretch my arm and extend the funny little implement. So here I am, striving for the ultimate perfection, stretching to reach a speck of dust. I feel I have finally reached proper adulthood, the age of real responsibilities when I can be entrusted with the daily running of a family home. And this gives me the confidence to lean further to the right in the direction of the window, my shins are now against the sidebars of the bunk. I can feel them and think I have a sturdy guard rail here so it is ok to lean further. From the bedroom door my body must lean exactly like the Tower of Pisa. I am pretty certain if I could measure the angle it would be the same. So a very safe angle, I conclude. I can see the chair just below, strategically placed so I can use it to balance my right leg if I cannot reach the speck of dust.

Meanwhile, and not unlike the aforementioned tower, my body keeps leaning, slowly at first, but surely towards the right (towards the window and the speck of dust so direction-wise, we are doing very well). But my shins then push a little more against the side bars of the bunk and this turns the gentle leaning into a sudden toppling of the gracious tower. The chair does not do its job of supplying a safe landing area nor does the brightly coloured implement does its as a makeshift parachute and here I come tumbling down with a loud crashing noise onto the bedroom floor, my head landing with a dull thud just an inch from the brick wall.