UNTIL very recently I adhered fully to the maxim that only dull women have immaculate homes.
In fact, I thought it was almost a badge of honour – a sign of just how interesting I must be – that my house had a slight air of ‘forgotten’ about it.
After all, I was off doing more important things. Like going to the pub.
Now a sea change has occurred and it has become a source of much embarrassment – nay, shame – that I find myself positively enjoying domesticity.
I’m supposed to be a modern woman, liberated from a life of drudgery by my foremothers and their brave campaigning for equal rights.
Plus, admitting one has a penchant for dusting is just not normal.
But the fact is, I do.
Casa Smith has become Casa Beeton.
My inner housewife has been awakened and now I find myself immersed in such horrendously uncool activities as scouring cookbooks for ‘the perfect Sunday roast’ and steam cleaning the kitchen floor because I like how the sun shines off it in the afternoon.
My husband, obviously, has not been told any of this as he would immediately resolve never to lift a finger again.
Still, he has noticed a sudden decrease in the number of jobs he is expected to do and clearly thinks all his Christmases and birthdays have come at once.
“You sit there and watch the Formula One and I’ll do the washing up,” is a sentence that almost gave him a heart attack the first time I said it.
Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he managed to grab a beer and go from nought to spread-eagled on the sofa before I could even draw breath.
I can only hope this madness ends soon and I can go back to my previous, slovenly ways, where I’m blissfully unaware of crumbs in the carpet and dirty washing overflowing from the basket.
In the meantime, though, my life as a 1950s throwback continues.
Now, where’s my pinny?
Article first published in The Westmorland Gazette on May 28, 2015