Tell me why I don't like Thursdays

By Victoria Farncombe on May 29, 08 03:34 PM

I clean the house on a Thursday. My inlaws come to take Mollie for the afternoon and then I set to with my cleaning bucket.

I'd like to say I do it with a good grace but that would be a lie. As I sweep my broom/ hoover/ duster through the house, I, well, sulk is the only word for it.

Stupid housework, sweep sweep; Don't see why I have to do it, dust dust; Used to have a career, hoover hoover. And so on. By the time I've finished, I've worked myself up into a complete rage.

Here's the weird thing. Fed up of coming home to a banshee who yells at him for leaving wet towels on the bathroom floor, spitting toothpaste round the sink and other such domestic crimes, my husband has offered to pay for a cleaner.

But no, I have this inbuilt guilt that tells me, I'm at home, I should do housework.

It's daft. I know if my husband was the main upbringer (is that a word?), he wouldn't give a monkey's whether the loo sparkled - he'd be too busy taking Mollie swimming, playing aeroplanes or going to the zoo.

So why do I care?

It just goes to show that despite feminism, the sixties and all that malarky, women are still brought up to believe that nice girls keep house.

I'd rage more but the kitchen floor is calling. GRRRRRRR.