AUGUST
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.
