SEPTEMBER
The Garden thinks it’s in charge – I cut a plant back and it doubles.
I’ve heard it said that gardening is a peaceful hobby. People say it is relaxing, therapeutic even. They speak about communing with nature, gently tending to plants and watching them flourish under careful attention. I really would like to meet these people. My garden and I have a relationship. I’d call it ongoing negotiation, but the trouble is the garden believes it is the one in charge.
Take pruning, for example. Pruning, in theory, is a quite simple concept. You cut a plant back, tidy it up, encourage it to behave in a more civilised fashion. Perhaps it has grown too tall, too wide, or too enthusiastic for the space it occupies. A few strategic snips and order restored.
Well, that is the theory anyway. My garden determines pruning is a declaration of war and goes all out to win. I see my victim, (for victim read plant) and I head in with my secateurs in hand. Now to give you just a little idea, about a month ago, I had a plant that had grown round everything and seriously needed trimming back. If I’m being honest, I wanted it gone so took it right back to the stem…literally. It was a twig and nothing else.
Two weeks later the plant has doubled in size and looks triumphant. It’s won the war, or so it thinks. It is just like it took the pruning as a personal affront, a challenge.
“Oh, you cut me back?” it seems to say. “Excellent. Watch this.”
Let’s talk hedges. Now I don’t trim this, that’s the gardeners job. The hedge between us and next door was so tall and wiry that it was starting to try to grow into the garage. The gardener decided the best bet was to take it right back. It’s now half its size and I actually like the littler hedge.
I sometimes suspect my garden watches me. I walk outside with my secateurs, and the plants collectively think, “Here she comes again. Let’s see who she’s picking on and what happens if we triple size this time.”
There is a certain stubborn intelligence to plants. They look passive, sitting quietly in the soil, but they are clearly plotting something. You remove one unruly branch and three replacements appear. You cut something back to improve balance and suddenly it has developed an entirely new growth strategy. It is the horticultural version of cutting one fringe hair and ending up with a completely different hairstyle.
Of course, the garden does occasionally pretend to cooperate. A plant will behave itself for a while, growing exactly where it should. I begin to feel confident. In control, even.
We’ve recently had a small magnolia tree removed to revamp the backyard. As much as I didn’t want to see it go, the space we now have is much bigger. It’s all gravel so the plant pots have room to manoeuvre …and spread.
The garden, it seems, believes enthusiasm is always the correct response. And despite the ongoing battle, I must admit there is something impressive about that. Plants do not sulk when cut back. They do not complain about setbacks. They simply respond by growing more.
And judging by the rate everything grows back, I’m certain it thinks it is winning.
AUGUST
The house and I do not speak
There is silence. Not a single word. Not a thanks for restoring to me to something that looks vaguely lived in. No gratitude. Nothing. After everything I do for my house, would you expect a response? constructive criticism maybe?
“Thanks for cleaning the fridge.”
“Thanks for vacuuming behind the sofa.”
No. Not a word. Silence.
Every week I have a little bet with myself. This will be the week that everything comes together. Everything is gathered. I am ready to do battle.
My house watches me. Silently. Judging me. I always start at one end of the house, a logical way. Dust, Hoover, steam. Move to the next room and so on. But one room is worse than the others. It is always the kitchen. The bench collects crumbs as though it breeds them. I wipe it down. Step back. Admire the gleam. I turn around. Crumbs.
What the actual f***? Is my house bored and decided I needed a challenge?
The vacuuming is another “joy” of cleaning. I vacuum leaving lines like a gardener’s lawn on my carpet. It is satisfying and orderly. It shows hard labour. Well, it shows labour anyway. At least the vacuum doesn’t record my dodgy singing while I work.
So, here’s my question. Where does all the fluff come from? (Ok 2 questions) and why does it appear after I have vacuumed?
The house offers no clues, but I sense the house may be having some fun with me.
Dusting is perhaps the greatest betrayal in my life. I run a cloth along shelves and watch the grey gather obediently. I feel efficient. Capable. In control. I damp dust and use polish after. The following day, sometimes that evening, light streams through the window at precisely the wrong angle and reveals a thin, shimmering layer I swear was not there. The house does not apologise for this trick of the light. It seems to enjoy it. It’s like it’s taunting me.
My house does not shout. It does not nag. It simply exists in a state of mild disapproval.
And yet — here is the strange part — when I leave it unattended for too long, when life is heavier than mopping and I decide that dust can sit and dishes can soak indefinitely, the house changes.
It feels different. Not angry. Not condemning. Just slightly… neglected.
Maybe housework is not punishment but a partnership. A steady rhythm between walls and woman. It gathers. I restore. It gathers again.
We don’t speak; we don’t need to. But we understand each other perfectly.
I plan my housework
Is this crazy? I plan my housework with the precision of a military operation and the enthusiasm of someone heading in for minor surgery without anaesthetic. There are lists. There are sub-lists. There are notes in the margin (see what I did there!!) There are strategic pauses for a cold drink or a quick breather. On paper, my house should sparkle like a display home. In reality, it looks more like I staged a rebellion against dust and then negotiated a ceasefire.
Welcome to housework, Hattersley style.
Before you start arguing with me about planning housework, know this: I am a list maker. Always have been. Always will be. There is something deeply satisfying about crossing something off a list. A tiny rush of achievement. So yes, even my housework has a list. And yes, I have a plan.
I do my full housework on Dad’s club nights. He goes out. The music goes on. I begin at one end of the house and work my way through like a woman on a mission. Media room first. Then that end of the hallway. Then Dad’s bathroom and toilet, followed by the utility room. His bedroom and study come next. Finally, the kitchen and lounge. Hoover all the way through, every room, no mercy.
And then comes what used to be the worst part. Mopping.
I used to detest mopping. Truly. Deeply. With feeling. The number of times I managed to tip the bucket over mid-clean is far higher than anyone should ever admit aloud. Water everywhere. I’d utter language not fit for print.
But not anymore.
Dad bought me a Kärcher floor steamer, and suddenly mopping went from torture to triumph. No buckets. No spills. Just steam, glide, and the smug satisfaction of clean floors without a minor flood.
Housework, planned. Floors, conquered. Lists, victorious. Life, easier.
