This weekend, I’ve worked my arse off and got every room in the house clean and tidy. We’ve had a massive sort out and got rid of all of the clothes and shoes that we don’t want anymore, sorted out Sausage’s burgeoning mound of toys, sorted out Husbands office which was in danger of attracting hobos with the amount of cardboard boxes that were piled up in there. Hell, Husband even cleaned the oven! What I’m saying is, that as I sit here there’s one final load of washing going round in the machine and then THAT’S IT. There’s no more housework to do today.
And do you know what? I don’t like it.
I’m ever so good at ignoring housework, like “Oh, yeah, I know there’s mould on the bathroom tiles, but I just need to watch this episode of Desperate Housewives…” but now there’s nothing to do and I can just legitimately sit and watch TV or read my Kindle, I feel like I can’t concentrate. Like, it’s not worth doing if I’m not using it as an avoidance of something.
So, you see, I think I have some sort of mental illness. Any ideas what it might be? All I know is, I’m scouting the house for chores, and on account of the fact that this is me we’re talking about, I know there’s definitely something amiss!