Domestic God Meets Domestic Disaster

The Husband is back from working away in the great metropolis of Manchester for eight months making quality entertainment for the great British public and enjoying being on temporary gardening leave until the next project comes up. Having pruned the garden to death he's now throwing his weight behind a massive 'autumn' clean of the house.  He's the male equivalent of Monica in Friends, every so slightly OCD about keeping the house tidy, unlike me, who's a bit more 'relaxed' about it all. He's very much 'a place for everything and everything in it's place' to my 'a place for everything and everything in one place...in a big pile... which I will sort out... eventually.'

The trouble with having moved as often as we have is that we have amassed a vast collection of bit and pieces, furniture, stuff that I don't want to get rid of, you know, just in case.  We are fortunate to have two sheds but with those now groaning at the seams, it's time to look at other options; self storage or a massive garage sale. Only we don't have a garage.  Or there's always Ebay, but as I'm currently boycotting any company that is evading tax that's a no-goer.

It's amazing all the things that we've found. Forty old pie and jelly moulds I bought in an auction - well it seemed like a good idea at the time - some funky door hooks I bought in France, even a carrier bag of old letters dating back to the time I lived in the Middle East.  It's been lovely to read through them. My favourite ones are from my best friend from school, who ended up by accident living down the road from me in Bahrain, telling me she was pregnant, and then another one just after her baby daughter was born, telling me all about it and the trials, tribulations and joys of early motherhood. They are very special. We've recently got back in touch after 20 years and met up a few months ago when she was over from Australia where she has lived for about the same length of time. She's over again so hopefully we'll get another chance for a good old catch up with our ukuleles. But that's another story.  The Husband hasn't so much as kept an old postcard and doesn't really understand my obsession for these old bits of my history but I could never get rid of them, although the bunch of letters from an old boyfriend from that time in my life may just have to.

Today, while I've been doing Important Things, he's scrubbed the kitchen, moved everything out of the way so he can get behind and underneath, and cleaned out the fridge, which is often a bit like an alternative version of Time Team where  we unearth brown, soggy unidentifiable former vegetables rather than ancient ruins.

Someone in the village is asking for recommendations for a good cleaner. Maybe I should put his name forward. He's now attacking the ironing pile and bemoaning the lack of coat hangers but when at any one time, at least half of our clothes are 'in the ironing', I haven't found we've needed that many!  Better make the most of it. The next phonecall could take him away again and then the domestic crown is passed back to me again and I'm definitely more Domestic Disaster than Domestic Goddess. And in the meantime I have a book to finish...