I am not renowned for the quality of my housework. Until recently, I could blame my laxity on having a full-time job while also raising a family, but as I gave up the job in February and my family consists of just the one husband and child,that excuse doesn't quite pull the same punch these days.
Since drawing the rheumatoid arthritis card a few years ago, I have in any case had to be economic with the scrubbing brush, as my hands can't take the strain. (Well, it was a welcome excuse, to be honest.)
I've been frightened of vacuum cleaners since the age of about 2. One of my earliest memories is hiding from the hoover in horror. (It's called zuigerphobia, as you ask.) Fortunately the recent trend for laminate flooring and my subsequent elimination of carpet in my house mitigated in the favour of floor hygiene.
But now I've discovered the joy of household wetwipes, the dust and germs are starting to lose their battle in my home.
Of course, as a modern mother, I got through a crate or two of baby wipes when my daughter was smaller. How did our parents ever manage without them? When I was a teenager and the environmental debate about disposable nappies was starting up, I cut out a cartoon from the newspaper that showed a lady carrying around her baby in a bucket, saying "On balance it seemed the best solution". It seemed like a perfectly good idea to me. But baby wipes stopped being a regular feature in my shopping trolley some time ago.
Then when I had to give notice to my cleaning ladies when I left the job that paid their fee, I started to linger a little longer in the cleaning products aisle at the supermarket. There I discovered a fascinating range of wetwipes for the home. Polish-impregnated wipes to do away with grubby yellow dusters and icky polising cloths, window wipes, kitchen counter wipes, bathroom wipes, shower wipes, and now even flushable toilet wipes. I trialled them in our camper van, where space is at a premium and their compact packaging was a distinct advantage. Within ten minutes, I had the whole interior shiny new.
I'm ignoring my inkling that this could all be a manufacturing scam. Are all of the wipes actually exactly the same, just with a slightly different perfume added to put you off the scent (ho ho) and a different plastic wrapper? I'm not prepared to testdrive the flushable toilet wipes on my leather sofas to check this out.
Having just enjoyed cleaning my bathroom with, yes, the bathroom wipes, I plan to get the polishy ones out in a minute for my desktop, once I've finished this piece. Then perhaps I'll head for the Welsh dresser in the kitchen. I'm on a roll here.
Give me the right wetwipe and I could clean up the world. Global warming wetwipe, anyone? Pollution polishing cloth? Anti-terrorist tissues? Go on, Cillit Bang, I'm sure you could do it if you put your minds to it.
Saturday, 26 June 2010
Friday, 18 June 2010
It's So Last Century
My sister-in-law Janet's famed theory ("The best way to get something done is to do something else") strikes again today as I take my car to the garage for repairs.
My objective: to cure the car of making an odd scraping sound that suggests the exhaust might be about to fall off. While the mechanics try to diagnose the cause, I'm restricted to a range within walking distance of the garage. So I hit Chipping Sodbury High Street with nothing to do but keep an eye on my phone for an update on my car's welfare.
My achievement: one new skirt, one new waistcoat, one new jacket, one new blouse, plus a bill for £68 (so a bit of a bargain, then). This is, of course, excluding the garage costs.
A frequent target for comedians as the ultimate in rural backwaters, Chipping Sodbury High Street is actually quite a pretty place, with an old-fashioned marketplace centre and a range of shops untouched by the global brands that dominate most other high streets. Until I ran out of cats, my most frequent missions to Sodbury were for the sake of the veterinary surgery. Until the wonderful Mr Riley retired a few years ago, he seemed to spend almost as much time with my menagerie as I did. He particularly looked forward to appointments with Floyd, whom he pronounced "the most amiable cat I've ever met". Even when taking an animal on a one-way trip to the vet, I always enjoyed the fact that Mr Riley's surgery was situated in Horse Street.
Our house now being a feline-free zone, I spend today's visit meandering down the High Street. I check out the charity shops, as you do, before wandering into a clothes shop that I'd never been into before. Having previously written it off as a shop for old ladies, I soon find myself enthusiastically trying on half the shop. At one point another customer asks my permission to try on a dress. I am carrying so many clothes that she thinks I must work there. I leave with a surprisingly full carrier bag, trying not to consider the possibility that the chief reason I nowlike this shop is that I've evolved into an old lady.
My car, incidentally, does not get fixed. The required part will not arrive until Monday. So my sole achievement this morning is to revitalise my wardrobe.
This comes not a moment before time. Recently I rearranged my clothes. Usually I oscillate between hanging them in order of colour and pairing them up in outfits, in between the odd bout of chaos. I flirted with the idea of putting them in order by date of purchase, until I realised that a shocking proportion of items were bought before the turn of the millenium. Never mind them being "so last year" - "so last century" was nearer the mark. Carbon-dating would not go amiss.
But one thing's for sure: Janet's theory is proven beyond all doubt.
My objective: to cure the car of making an odd scraping sound that suggests the exhaust might be about to fall off. While the mechanics try to diagnose the cause, I'm restricted to a range within walking distance of the garage. So I hit Chipping Sodbury High Street with nothing to do but keep an eye on my phone for an update on my car's welfare.
My achievement: one new skirt, one new waistcoat, one new jacket, one new blouse, plus a bill for £68 (so a bit of a bargain, then). This is, of course, excluding the garage costs.
A frequent target for comedians as the ultimate in rural backwaters, Chipping Sodbury High Street is actually quite a pretty place, with an old-fashioned marketplace centre and a range of shops untouched by the global brands that dominate most other high streets. Until I ran out of cats, my most frequent missions to Sodbury were for the sake of the veterinary surgery. Until the wonderful Mr Riley retired a few years ago, he seemed to spend almost as much time with my menagerie as I did. He particularly looked forward to appointments with Floyd, whom he pronounced "the most amiable cat I've ever met". Even when taking an animal on a one-way trip to the vet, I always enjoyed the fact that Mr Riley's surgery was situated in Horse Street.
Our house now being a feline-free zone, I spend today's visit meandering down the High Street. I check out the charity shops, as you do, before wandering into a clothes shop that I'd never been into before. Having previously written it off as a shop for old ladies, I soon find myself enthusiastically trying on half the shop. At one point another customer asks my permission to try on a dress. I am carrying so many clothes that she thinks I must work there. I leave with a surprisingly full carrier bag, trying not to consider the possibility that the chief reason I nowlike this shop is that I've evolved into an old lady.
My car, incidentally, does not get fixed. The required part will not arrive until Monday. So my sole achievement this morning is to revitalise my wardrobe.
This comes not a moment before time. Recently I rearranged my clothes. Usually I oscillate between hanging them in order of colour and pairing them up in outfits, in between the odd bout of chaos. I flirted with the idea of putting them in order by date of purchase, until I realised that a shocking proportion of items were bought before the turn of the millenium. Never mind them being "so last year" - "so last century" was nearer the mark. Carbon-dating would not go amiss.
But one thing's for sure: Janet's theory is proven beyond all doubt.
Sunday, 6 June 2010
Offa's Dyke Path, Laura's Way
When my daughter Laura had just turned two years old, we decided we'd walk the Offa's Dyke Path - the national trail that runs along the ancient English-Welsh border.
From the start, on the banks of the River Severn near Chepstow, we agreed we'd be realistic about our ambition. Accordingly, each year, we've done just two or three short segments of the 177 mile long Path. At first she would tire easily and we'd have to carry her, but lately the problem has not been her energy - she literally skips up some steep slopes - but her willingness. With the squeamishness of most seven year olds, she has developed an aversion to cross country routes due to the presence of animal poo. So we're developed some handy diversionary strategies to keep her marching on.
Our first tactic was to let her play with my mobile phone. As it was loaded with the Mamma Mia soundtrack, Laura positively danced past the sheep that day. On her sixth birthday, this was replaced with a pink iPod shuffle, featuring all her favourite songs and stories, and providing the important benefit of earphones. (The sheep had a whip-round.)
Second, we now always load our pockets with snacks, preferably the kind that can be made to last a long time. As Laura's diabetic, I always have a packet of LoveHearts to hand in case of hypos. Not only are these handy for instant inflight refuelling, they also provide entertainment as we read and discuss the slogan printed on each one. These have moved with the times since I was a child, now saying things like "Text Me" and most recently (and bizarrely) "Me Julie".
Thirdly, we allow a couple of lightweight toys to stow away in our rucksacks. These are useful for impromptu games along the way. This week, the sight of Ken helping Barbie courteously over stiles provided excellent entertainment for us all.
Community singing is a great standby, especially songs that can be adapted to suit our walks. "The Wheels on the Bus" easily accomodates "sheep on the bus", "cows on the bus" and so on, though I wouldn't like to be a passenger on that particular double-decker. "One Man Went to Mow" proved popular during our Easter walks, with the dog-mad Laura enthusiastically providing the "Woof-woofs" for up to 27 men going to mow before the game started to pall (and Mummy to run out of puff). I'm keeping "10 Green Bottles" up my sleeve.
But best of all is my latest ploy: to read books as we walk along. "Multi-tasking at its finest," as a friend described it when I told her about our Easter trip.
For some reason, Roald Dahl has become a natural companion on Offa's Dyke. Maybe it's his Welsh upbringing coming into play. "The Fantastic Mr Fox" saw us out of Hay-on-Wye and will be forever associated in my mind with the sublime views from Hergest Ridge. (Though I did manage to finish it in time to catch Mike Oldfield's glorious eponymous album on my own iPod before we descended.) "The Giraffe, The Pelly and Me" took us up the steep rise out of Kington, and "Danny the Champion of the World" saw us down the other side.
I think I may have discovered a whole new pastime here. I'm keen to find further books that will take us on appropriate walks. Some are blindingly obvious: "Three Men in a Boat" along the Thames towpath, "Cider with Rosie" for the Cotswold Way. But contrasts would be fun too: the alpine story of "Heidi" in Holland, "Born Free" on a city break. There'll be a packet of LoveHearts for the sender of the best suggestion.
From the start, on the banks of the River Severn near Chepstow, we agreed we'd be realistic about our ambition. Accordingly, each year, we've done just two or three short segments of the 177 mile long Path. At first she would tire easily and we'd have to carry her, but lately the problem has not been her energy - she literally skips up some steep slopes - but her willingness. With the squeamishness of most seven year olds, she has developed an aversion to cross country routes due to the presence of animal poo. So we're developed some handy diversionary strategies to keep her marching on.
Our first tactic was to let her play with my mobile phone. As it was loaded with the Mamma Mia soundtrack, Laura positively danced past the sheep that day. On her sixth birthday, this was replaced with a pink iPod shuffle, featuring all her favourite songs and stories, and providing the important benefit of earphones. (The sheep had a whip-round.)
Second, we now always load our pockets with snacks, preferably the kind that can be made to last a long time. As Laura's diabetic, I always have a packet of LoveHearts to hand in case of hypos. Not only are these handy for instant inflight refuelling, they also provide entertainment as we read and discuss the slogan printed on each one. These have moved with the times since I was a child, now saying things like "Text Me" and most recently (and bizarrely) "Me Julie".
Thirdly, we allow a couple of lightweight toys to stow away in our rucksacks. These are useful for impromptu games along the way. This week, the sight of Ken helping Barbie courteously over stiles provided excellent entertainment for us all.
Community singing is a great standby, especially songs that can be adapted to suit our walks. "The Wheels on the Bus" easily accomodates "sheep on the bus", "cows on the bus" and so on, though I wouldn't like to be a passenger on that particular double-decker. "One Man Went to Mow" proved popular during our Easter walks, with the dog-mad Laura enthusiastically providing the "Woof-woofs" for up to 27 men going to mow before the game started to pall (and Mummy to run out of puff). I'm keeping "10 Green Bottles" up my sleeve.
But best of all is my latest ploy: to read books as we walk along. "Multi-tasking at its finest," as a friend described it when I told her about our Easter trip.
For some reason, Roald Dahl has become a natural companion on Offa's Dyke. Maybe it's his Welsh upbringing coming into play. "The Fantastic Mr Fox" saw us out of Hay-on-Wye and will be forever associated in my mind with the sublime views from Hergest Ridge. (Though I did manage to finish it in time to catch Mike Oldfield's glorious eponymous album on my own iPod before we descended.) "The Giraffe, The Pelly and Me" took us up the steep rise out of Kington, and "Danny the Champion of the World" saw us down the other side.
I think I may have discovered a whole new pastime here. I'm keen to find further books that will take us on appropriate walks. Some are blindingly obvious: "Three Men in a Boat" along the Thames towpath, "Cider with Rosie" for the Cotswold Way. But contrasts would be fun too: the alpine story of "Heidi" in Holland, "Born Free" on a city break. There'll be a packet of LoveHearts for the sender of the best suggestion.
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