Cleaning Is Cheaper Than Therapy

I've just come back from a lovely weekend away.

A working weekend but if I hadn't been working we wouldn't have gone which would have meant I was in Hicksville for the weekend, doing nothing.

I enjoyed every minute of it. Even while I sat on the deck and exercised (my arm, by lifting my wine glass repeatedly).

I packed so well that it all fitted into my Astra without suffocating our children. The food was lovely, the wine was better, and EVERYWHERE made beautiful coffee. Except the place we grabbed one from as we left. That was a mistake, made better by stopping at the next pituresque town and getting a double shot supersized one to make up!

So I was feeling quite good by the time we got home.

I should have known my smile would trip the bitches radar.

Within ten whole minutes of arriving back in Hicksville and stopping to give SuperGranny and PA gigantic kidlet hugs, the bitch was on the phone demanding attention in the way only she can manage it. Full of lies and drama and insisting SG and PA shut their business and rescue her now.

The terror crept over me almost immediately. The gut churning desperate desire to pack my house and move to France.

I spent the rest of the day and half the night pacing, swearing, crying and wondering how soon I could be picking up a coffee in Charles de Gaulle.

Then I got up the next morning and my kitchen looked like this:

WonderMan's dishes he promised to do

The sideboard everyone thinks is a dustbin

The table I wanted to sit at to eat my breakfast.

Only it was worse because I had huffily put away a whole heap of crap before remembering to take photos.

With my current state of angst it was like pushing daggers into my soul.

So I cleaned it. It took a whole day and much swearing at the idiot who decided lots of wood pannelling and decorative cornicing was a great idea. This was quite obviously not designed by the person who had to clean it, EVER.

Now it looks like this:

Holy cow I can see my microwave!

My super duper empty and polished bench.

I actually have quite a bit of room here if people stop dumping their shit on it

If you look inside my cupboards you will see utensils and containers arranged in neat orderly rows.

I discovered I had three melon ballers, two can openers, and some thingo I can't remember buying and don't know what it's for.

The bright flash in the middle picture is half of WonderMan in his goofy council shirt, which is brand new, and so bright I have to wear shades while he wears it.

He was telling his mate on the phone "The wife's having a hard time" which he could tell by the fact that I was obsessing over the fact that I had an uneven number of cleaning bottles, and I didn't know which one to throw out. And because I almost went into meltdown when he happened to lean on my fantastically polished bench.

WonderMan understands.

He's been around long enough to know that cleaning is my therapy. And judging by the shine off my kettle this morning, he knows I'm not doing so well.

This is my way of coping when the bitch sends me into a depressive, suicidal tailspin.

It's much cheaper than spending an hour on an ugly, uncomfortable button backed sofa while some idiot in thin glasses and even thinner lips tells me I had a traumatic experience in the womb.

You can tell how I feel by my determination to have my house looking like a magazine inside a week. Tiger has cottoned on and is currently hiding her possessions in her mattress. WonderMan is jumpy and refuses to sit still in case I suck him up with the Kirby.

And it's not going to get any better...... because it looks like the bitch is here to stay.