Housework Ha Ha Ha!

Housework! Who doesn't do as little as they have to, as infrequently as possible? Surely I'm not alone in this. Of course, living on one's own does allow a certain latitude, a licence to chill over the matter.

It's not as though I'm lazy. I've always got tons on the go. It's a question or priorities. There are usually way more exciting things to do than make beds, dust surfaces. clean blinds, sweep floors, wash dishes. 

However, as it happens today I've reached a kind of end-point. I arrive at this position about every three weeks, when I've not got a single clean plate, cup, dish, pan or knife, fork and spoon left in the house and the dirties are piled up on either side of the kitchen sink. (You're shocked?)

the correct way to do washing-up

Of necessity therefore, this week's blog will be short as I shall spend a good hour or two washing up in the approved manner. The poem's the thing then, if it is a poem. Enjoy!

Marigold Loves

Supposing she hadn't come home early from work

to wash last night's dishes. She'd never have found

his suitcase waiting ready in the hall, only the note

not even in an envelope lying on the kitchen table.

She scanned it as he flushed the loo, a flashback to

his joke with Deborah about cream of passion soup.

The knife already in her hand, the surprise all his as

he came whistling downstairs, and in a bitter frenzy 

she thrust deep into his belly over and again. Blood

everywhere, his dying prayer inaudible.  I won't let

you leave me for her!  she spat. So that was that. It

was after she put her dress in the washing machine

and pulled on yellow gloves to start on those dishes

that she remembered some crime-writer's, Maigret's

perhaps, Tale Of A Tidy Wife: cut him to pieces and

mince the meat for freezing. Throw out one portion

in the rubbish every few weeks. Dissolve the bones

in acid and pour the liquid down the drain. Burn the

bloody clothes in the furnace. And yes, put that case

in any railway station luggage locker and dispose of

the key and then produce the note as proof he's gone

to start his new life with another. Marigold loves him

of course, but how dared he? Wistfully she sips wine.

She always does her best thinking at the kitchen sink.

Thanks for reading, S ;-)