Housework - Squeaky Clean, Not Quite

 

Housework, that never-ending project that always starts with good intentions, but there are so many distractions and a complete lack of interest. That’s just me, obviously. Some people (other women) can’t rest until everything sparkles, nothing is out of place and a mixed fragrance of polish, disinfectant and Shake’n’Vac fill the air, a little diluted by the open windows. This is the opposite of me. I once saw a quote on a fridge magnet or something, along the lines of “Boring women have tidy houses”. With that in mind, I can promise you I am not boring. My house isn’t a tip, not exactly, but looking around, there are areas of ‘a work in progress’, things just started or not quite finished. It is the multi-tasking that does it. For example, the laundry can be happening while I’m doing something else. A loaded washing machine, switched on, looks after itself. How helpful it might be to have the magical finger clicking skills of Mary Poppins when the grandchildren have been and left everything out.

One evening, over Christmas, we had rain seeping in through the lounge bay window, dripping from the blinds on to the sill. It wasn’t much, just an annoying drip, with no obvious point of entry. I had to squeeze myself behind the Christmas tree to place a folded towel to soak up the water and silence the drip. It had rained constantly for days, so there must be a weak spot somewhere. We never found it, inside or out, and it hasn’t happened since. Watch this space. We noticed loose wallpaper, hidden by furniture, needing further investigation after Christmas, and when I had recovered from whatever virus plagued me for about a week.

The time came. The tree and everything festive, removed, boxed and returned to the attic. Spring cleaning can commence, but first, the wall needs checking. It was simple enough, remove the contents of the small bookcase, move bookcase out of the way – note to self for next time, the shelves are not fixed – I squeal in pain, but mind my language because I’m a lady. Examine the wall. The wallpaper has come off because the plaster is crumbling. A slight tap and lots of powdery plaster comes away building a pyramid shape on the edge of the carpet. All is dry, bone dry. A few spoken thoughts, then dustpan and brush followed by the vacuum cleaner. There’s nowhere else for the bookcase and contents to go, so it is put back to where it was. The post-Christmas cleaning and tidying continued, until I found something more appealing to do. Someone who knows about walls and plaster crumbling has been sent for. This might mean that the purchase of new chairs has to wait.

Housework is summed up perfectly in this poem by Pam Ayres, followed by one of mine,

Dust If You Must

Dust if you must, but wouldn’t it be better
To paint a picture or write a letter,
Bake a cake or plant a seed,
Ponder the difference between want and need?

Dust if you must, but there’s not much time,
With rivers to swim and mountains to climb,
Music to hear and books to read,
Friends to cherish and life to lead.

Dust if you must, but the world’s out there,
With the sun in your eyes, the wind in your hair,
A flutter of snow, a shower of rain.
This day will not come around again.

Dust if you must, but bear in mind,
Old age will come and it’s not kind.
And when you go – and go you must –
You yourself will make more dust.

                                                            Pam Ayres

I’m With These 2018 Heroes

The kitchen floor needs mopping
And the beds are left unmade
But I’m not doing housework
While there’s matches being played.

The perfect football pitches,
Neatly mowed and lush and green,
Ready for the world’s finest
To give us the best we’ve seen.

So bring it on, DeBruyne,
Ronaldo and Messi, too.
Fellaini and Suarez
I’ll be watching all of you.

A huge shout out for England,
For Harry Kane and the boys,
I’ve taught my grandkids to cheer
And to fill my house with noise.

Fav’rites Rashford and Lingard,
The skilful Eric Dier,
I’m loving every moment,
Applauding Harry Macguire.

The crumbs stay on the carpet
While the football frenzy flows
And the pots wait in the sink
‘Til the final whistle blows.

Pamela Winning 2018 (edited 2024)

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Sacred - Auntie's Lord Jesus

A plaster figurine of Our Lord Jesus stood on my auntie’s bedside table for as far back as I can remember. As a child, he fascinated me. I could look, but not touch. He was very special. He was a sacred gift to my aunt and uncle on their wedding day in 1946 from the Catholic priest who married them, I was told.

When she passed away, widowed and childless, my sister and I were next of kin and I became the keeper of her treasured possessions, including her religious bits and pieces.  Our family was an equal mix of Protestant and Catholic. I still hang on to the Christian faith of all camps I grew up with, but Auntie’s artefacts were not for display. I can’t remember what happened, but I know I was very upset and distressed when ‘Jesus’ became damaged and decapitated. The least I could do for my late aunt was to care for the things that were special to her and I failed. This was as bad as my failing to appreciate that she needed help and care herself and wasn’t just a selfish, cantankerous woman. Life’s hard bits really hurt.

The Jesus figurine ended up at the top of my wardrobe for twenty years until I brought it out today. I wanted a photograph for this blog and I intended to mend it, or rather ask my husband, who has some proper glue for such a job, to mend it. I would then put it with the other items I have of Auntie’s. I feel reluctant to part with these things yet feel burdened with by keeping them.

‘Jesus’ was there where I put him, at the back of the top shelf of my fitted wardrobe, wrapped in a towel and a piece of my aunt’s unfinished knitting before being zipped up safely in a holdall. I lifted him out of the bag, unwrapped the coverings and was surprised to find him intact. I have no recollection of any of us repairing the figurine. And no, there’s absolutely no chance of spiritual intervention, if such a thing exists to mend broken ornaments. There is a faint line of shiny adhesive visible and because it is made of plaster, the break crumbled and left chipped edges. To be fair, it looks alright. It’s just me feeling I’ve let my aunt down by spoiling something that was sacred to her. In her rightful mind, I know she would forgive me.

If anything is sacred to me at the moment, it’s my lovely geum plant in the garden, called Totally Tangerine and doing very well. It must be an omen. The colour of the flowers are more orangey than the photo. 

  

  

My choice of poem doesn’t match the theme of ‘Sacred’ but I’d like to share a favourite of mine from Maya Angelou,

  

 Still I Rise

 You may write me down in history

 With your bitter, twisted lies,

 You may trod me in the very dirt

 But still, like dust, I'll rise.

 Does my sassiness upset you?

 Why are you beset with gloom?

 ’Cause I walk like I've got oil wells

 Pumping in my living room.

 Just like moons and like suns,

 With the certainty of tides,

 Just like hopes springing high,

 Still I'll rise.

 Did you want to see me broken?

 Bowed head and lowered eyes?

 Shoulders falling down like teardrops,

 Weakened by my soulful cries?

 Does my haughtiness offend you?

 Don't you take it awful hard

 ’Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines

 Diggin’ in my own backyard.

 You may shoot me with your words,

 You may cut me with your eyes,

 You may kill me with your hatefulness,

 But still, like air, I’ll rise.

 Does my sexiness upset you?

 Does it come as a surprise

 That I dance like I've got diamonds

 At the meeting of my thighs?

 Out of the huts of history’s shame

 I rise

 Up from a past that’s rooted in pain

 I rise

 I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,

 Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

 Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

 I rise

 Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear

 I rise

 Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

 I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

 I rise

 I rise

 I rise. 

              Maya Angelou (1928-2014)

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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Wallpaper - Let's Keep It Dry

My impaired vision cannot cope with brightly coloured carpets or patterned wallpaper, so our house is very plain in neutral colours. The busy, lived-in look or clutter, if you like, keeps it interesting and homely. A small wall between the kitchen and the back room needed something.

 I’ve avoided putting any pictures on that particular wall since one of my cross-stitch artworks was almost ruined when the bathroom wash basin overflowed directly above. Water streamed down the wall and trickled from the light-fitting. Our daughter was the culprit, a young child at the time. We removed the plugs from every sink and basin and implemented an ‘ask if you need it’ policy which remained in place until the children had grown up. All our replaced sinks have built in plugs now. I will keep a close watch on our grandchildren.

We decided to have wallpaper, just on that small area. I liked the idea of something bright, jazzy and loud, to make a feature of it. My eyes would be fine, after all, it’s only one, very small wall. Huge, red poppies interlaced with pale green leaves on a white background looked stunning and I loved it. All visitors remarked on how nice it was and I felt very house-proud, just for that wall. No one seemed to notice that it wasn’t sticking properly just above the skirting board where I think we had been running out of paste. The enjoyment turned out to be short lived.

At the front of the house, a damp patch seemed to be getting bigger. It was between the stairs and the front door and dried out when the central heating was on but always came back. We had checked for leaks and unblocked the airbrick, but the damp area persisted. We called the guys in. It was bad news. We needed a new damp core all along the outside wall from the front door to the beginning of the kitchen extension, which was unaffected. It had to be done, so it was a sad goodbye to the lovely wallpaper but that was nothing compared to the dismantling of fitted cupboards and the walls taken back to the brickwork. It was easier for our builders to replace the downstairs loo and basin with new ones, rather than trying to salvage anything. Crumbled plaster and smashed tiles. What a mess, but soon sorted.

This is where one job leads to another. The rest of the hall and the stairs and landing had to be prepared for redecorating.  Year in and year out, we had painted the walls over the same wallpaper. It was as thick as cardboard and hard work to get off, even with a couple of steamers, but to see the various pale shades we thought were nice at the time was amusing. I don’t remember ever choosing a wishy-washy pink, but there it was and Regency Cream had quickly turned yellow. The mushroomy off-white was a mistake, magnolia would have been better.   

Eventually, everywhere was painted white on to the newly skimmed plaster and that is how it has stayed.

We papered the feature wall with another large, floral pattern, which isn’t as good as the original, but it would do. Unfortunately, we had another flood in the bathroom, nothing to do with children and nothing that could have been prevented. Once again, the only wallpapered wall is the casualty. I’m glad we have a reliable plumber. It has dried out leaving wrinkles, bubbles and a few streaky marks. For now it can stay like that. I can’t see the damage as well as everyone else can.

 

I found this poem. It reminded me of the memories we shared when we tackled the hall.

 

 

Wallpaper Torn

 

paint revealed by wallpaper torn,
layers of peeling; the
faded adorn—a story of life.

joy, of accomplishment and
new beginnings.
children born, playing,
growing up—growing old.
past scars distant
memories; misplaced, obliterated—
by time reduced to dust.

a home
buried beneath the earth,
its walls no more.
the vessel shattered, decaying
stories lost, forgotten,
the curse of mankind’s
living.

 

Shaun Meehan, Ontario 2015

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

 

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