OK, I broke The bloody Scooter. I can’t even blame the memes.
Thursday was about the tenth torrentially rainy day in a row. Outdoors, we’d done the jumping-in-muddy-puddles-like-Peppa-Pig thing to death and, indoors, we’d completed more paintings than Leonardo, so I thought I’d have a spring/autumn clean. No-one really likes housework, do they? But I dislike it so much and do so little of it that I have to whisper the word. When I say spring clean, it may have been more like a weekly tidy up for many of you: bleaching the kitchen and bathroom, mostly, then wiping off fingerprints from the walls and doors (this for the first time ever, I must admit: the interior of our house was a criminologist’s dream, that is if Angel were more culpable of anything other than pissing me off big time) and, of course, the dreaded vacuuming.
There and then, I made a promise to myself that, when I am eventually sitting anywhere north of the poverty line, I will employ a regular cleaner and I will pay that person double the minimum wage.
The plan had been to get My Girl involved in this rare process, engage her in early training, just in case I can never afford said cleaner. An old, rinsed Flash spray bottle full of lukewarm water and a new dishcloth were her tools and she was instructed to wipe the bath clean of her multi-coloured bath crayon drawings, which I’d meant to remove in September. She did well, the kid, but her concentration waned and she very quickly succumbed to the lure of anything else at all as long as it didn’t involve elbow grease. Like mother like …..
For once determined to get on with the job, I made her a den out of dining stools and lots of pretty blankets and material and left her to her own devices.
Kitchen stripped of grease, onion skins and bacteria. Bathrooms removed of mud, dirt rings and spiders’ webs. Any other shit I would prefer not to have to look at shoved under beds, into drawers and beneath brightly coloured sarongs that double up as throws. Mission nearly accomplished. Right: the mothersuckinghoovering! Floors are what I loathe cleaning the most because they are low down and dirty and for walking all over. No-one should have to subject themselves to backache, whilst casting their eyes in a downwards motion just to ensure that floors are rid of all that crap that inevitably gathers on them, not even cleaners working for £11.60 an hour.
But what if my mum comes round? What if I get an unexpected visitor?
I vacuumed most of the lounge with Artic Monkeys blasting out some and then some more. I had to dismantle the pretty den in order to get to the floor beneath it because if a job’s worth doing…. I pulled out The filthy dirty rotten mud-caked Scooter and bits of brown fell all over my freshly vacuumed cream carpet. For Fuck’s sake! In the den, I realised, The Scooter had been resting upon her white, yes white, duvet cover (with duvet inside, obviously).
I carried the lot into My Girl’s bedroom, dropping a trail of dried mud after me, really annoyed. In her room, she had pulled out all of her clothes, again, and draped them over the floor. What IS the sodding point?!? I delved not that deeply, as it happens, and pulled out my inner petulant child, throwing The stupid Scooter across the bedroom.
“Yes, Mummy.” Butter wouldn’t.
“Come and tidy these clothes up. Now!”
She simpered into the bedroom and I left her there, not really caring whether she was doing as I asked, just so long as she was out of my road.
Two minutes later, she appeared behind me, holding The Scooter’s handlebars and front wheel.
“Mummy, my scooter broke.” ShitShitShitShitShit – snapped in two.
In the spirit of the day, I came clean, explaining that I’d thrown it in a temper because I was angry because she kept making so much mess and that I was very, very sorry.
“That’s OK Mummy. I get a new one for Christmas. A PINK one.”
Yes, my darling, you most probably will.