The Messiness of Cleaning

So, this week in between working on my writing, editing short stories to submit, reading set texts for the new semester at Uni, and making ice cream and bramble jelly to make use of the flourishing blackberries, I have tried to motivate myself to do some serious cleaning.  Because there’s no escaping the fact our house needs it. 

Steve’s been away for the week, so its been an ideal time.  Especially because the new term starts soon, and I know any thoughts of cleaning will become a distant thought over the next twelve weeks.  

If that wasn’t enough of an incentive we have friends coming on Sunday for a BBQ, so all in all, cleaning really should be on the top of my ‘To-Do list’ for the week.   Usually, if nothing else gets me cleaning, the prospect of visitors will.  Because don’t we all panic at the thought of someone else seeing the mess we’ve quite happily been living in for some weeks?  But for someone else to see the mess, goodness me, no.  That’s just not on.

Anyway, as usual, my plan - my cleaning schedule wasn’t just to do a superficial clean.  If it was, I’d possibly have it done it by now.  But no, typically, I’d promised myself that I’d embark on a deep cleanse before autumn and then winter sets in. 

I'd set myself the task of clearing out the dust and grime hidden in the corners: to clean the cooker, the wardrobes, the bathroom cabinet and give a thorough scrub behind the ears to those places that week-by-week get forgotten and overlooked by my tendency to only clean what can be seen.   I’m good at that, creating an appearance of being clean.  A welcome illusion of me as a fastidiously spotless housekeeper, which, quite frankly, I’m not.

Cleaning doesn’t come naturally to me, which sounds ridiculous I know.  Because, really, how hard, is it to clean?  Technically, I can clean.  I have the ability.  The difficulty is in trying to be logical about it, managing to do it in a streamlined, sensible way to utilize time.  And that’s not me.  I’m not an A to B - start to finish sort of a person.  I like to take far too many detours along the way. 

Possibly, because I hate being confined by routine.  When I cut the grass, I hate going up and down in sensible lines.  Instead, I weave about, this way and that.  Circling round.  Crossing back on myself.  Because when forced to stick to a straight line, it feels like I can’t breathe.

Another problem with cleaning, I find, is that it needs to be done regularly.  You can’t just pull yourself together for one slog of a day and get everywhere clean and then that’s that.  Because all too soon, the dust is reforming, the ironing pile growing, watermarks re-appearing around the shower, and on and on….. 

The dust, the dirt, no matter how well you clean it: it all comes back.

And then you’re expected to do it all again.

I have over the years tried to fix this shortfall of mine.  I’ve bought and borrowed from libraries those ‘household’ books, a sort of modern day Mrs Beetons, in the hope that they will teach me the art of regular cleaning in a proper housewifely fashion. 

And for a day or two, I manage it, until I feel stifled and get bored.

It’s the routine of it all I can’t cope with.  The day in, day out, week in, week out schedule, and for what?

But here’s the conflict and why I am constantly battling with being a better housewife, the sort that washes up the dishes immediately that you’ve eaten and never lets a stain get sticky.  Because despite my grumbles, being in a clean house, hopping into a bed at night and snuggling against clean sheets that smell outdoorsy and fresh, well, it’s intoxicating.  It makes you feel good too, like you’re cleaner from the inside out, like your thoughts are pure and more focused.  I know I work better in a clean home, and Steve does too.

Another problem is the constant grind of worrying about ‘having’ to do the cleaning, and then not cleaning when you should be.  Years ago, in desperation, we resorted to having a weekly cleaner, which for a time was fantastic. I really had no idea glass showers could stay that shiny.  Only, we, like so many people do, ended up feeling obligated to clean our own mess before she arrived. 

Okay, so perhaps tidying endless piles of stuff that accumulate out of nowhere is probably a more accurate description.  But we were also a little devious.  We kept our office out of bounds, telling her that we didn’t want it to be disturbed.  In truth, it gave us somewhere to hide the mess whilst she was there.  Of course, once she’d gone, we moved the piles back, restoring them to their usual positions for another week. 

Something I've had to accept in life is that I just didn’t get the clean gene.  I greatly admire people who did, those who can effortlessly maintain a clean and tidy home. 

Honestly, though, I just don’t think it could ever happen to me.  Not now.

Steve likes to say that I’m the messy one.  I, obviously, don’t agree with that.  Although I do admit to having a unique ability for leaving whirlwinds of chaos in my wake on an average day.   And more worryingly, when I’m actually cleaning.  It’s what we now fondly call my ‘Cleaning Process’ and is not dissimilar to my gardening process although a little more advanced. 

So this is how it goes:  I wake.  I think, today’s the day.  I need to get on top of this mess.  I am going to clean.  I am an organized rational person.  I have all day. I can do this. 

I drink a cup of tea, contemplating all that I am going to get done.  I strip the sheets of the bed, and set them off in the washing machine.  As I pass through the kitchen, the tap that is discoloured with lime scale distracts me.  I’ve been meaning to sort it for months. 

Washing-up that has been left, is piled messily on the work surface.  I leave it there, and begin to scrub at the taps, struggling to work around the mess.  As I scrub I’m reminded that the taps in the bathroom are also looking grubby.  I may or may not have finished the kitchen taps.  Still, I head to the bathroom to clean those taps. 

In the bathroom, I put down my cloth and cleaner, noticing a stray hair band.  I’m in a ‘tidy mode’, so I’ll put that straight away.  As I stuff it in my dressing table drawer in the bedroom, I notice an envelope of silver jewellery I’ve been meaning to clean.  I dig out my silver cloth and begin to polish. 

One polished earring later, I remember that I’ve been meaning to clear out our underwear drawers, and tidy up the mess of clothes in our wardrobe.  I should do the clear out I’ve been planning and take the clothes to the charity shop.  Yes, great idea.  I begin to haul clothes from the wardrobe and load them upon the unmade bed.  Sorting them in distinct piles. 

All this work has made me thirsty.  Coffee time.  Kettle on, I loiter in the living room.  What a mess.  I should start tidying in there.  I lift a pile of ironing from the chair and potter through to place it on the bed.  I’ll sort it later.  I sit down to drink my coffee and take longer than I should. 

Finally, I get moving and put music on to motivate me.  I begin to dance.  I love dancing.  I always used to dance around my bedroom as I cleaned it when I was younger.  I’d look through all my old photos as I dusted. 

Why not? 

I begin to flick through some old photos now, reminiscing.  Must get on though.  With a quick squirt of polish I wipe the coffee table down, and then think about an email I was going to send.  In my office, I sit down at my desk and start to sort through a stack of paperwork.  Then I re-stack it, putting it down again, but in a fresh spot. 

Progress.  I should hang the washing out.  It’s been in the machine a few hours now.  I go outside.  Only it’s spitting with rain.  It’ll have to wait.  In the garden, I notice the weeds.  They really bother me.  I need to focus on weeding a little each day.  I begin to tug at weeds, even though I’m in my slippers.  I don’t bother to get my wheelbarrow, so leave a little pile outside the back door when I’ve had enough.  And then feed and water the birds. 

Food, yes, I’m getting peckish too.  I make lunch, leaving a bigger mess strewn around the piles of washing-up.  I’ll get to it later.  I’m busy cleaning right now.  I flitter through the living room. Nothing takes my fancy there.  In my office, I check emails.  Surf the web.  Do a bit of writing.  The afternoon is fading.  I nip to the loo.  Squirt some bathroom cleaner around and leave it for five minutes to work its magic.  I move the pile of post from the hallway to the sideboard in the spare room.  

It’s time to cook our evening meal, I manage to work around the mess in the kitchen.  In the evening we sit down in the living room.  Well, once I’ve moved the piles of sorted bits and pieces out of our chairs, and stack them on the overloaded bed. 

Later on at bedtime, all the piles of bits and pieces I have dumped on the bed during the day, and the carefully sorted clothes are now placed either on the chair in our room or the spare room bed. Swiftly, I throw fresh, un-ironed sheets on the mattress, which I forgot to make earlier. 

Finally, I clamber in to bed exhausted thinking: tomorrow, I really do need to do a spring clean.