It was musical beds in the Palace of Bundance last night and when the music stopped Boy Three and I were in bed together.
We woke up at the same time and spent a few happy minutes making dust motes dance by flapping the duvet. “Pixie dust,” he shouted and stirred the air with his legs.
Bored of that, we moved on to watching the progress of a spinning spider on the ceiling. “Where’s he going?” Boy Three asked. In the end we decided he was making a spare room for his friends.
They were a few magical moments before his hungry brothers burst. It got me thinking that they wouldn’t have happened if I was a more house-proud kind of person. Instead dust would be safely confined to the inside of the Dyson and spiders and their webs banished.
I would urge a little domestic slovenliness into your lives as being in a housework-poor zone has many benefits.
I can always tell when something has been pilfered or fiddled with. A light, but even, dusting of, well, dust means that I know when something has been moved. Useful if you, like me, are a confused combination of lackadaisical and controlling.
There is always a tasty task to give to a mooching child. Sort out the socks, hoover the floor, empty the laundry baskets and put away the dishes. It teaches them either to mooch somewhere else or to pretend they are doing something worthwhile.
It’s easier to be serene when another dribble, drop or crumb won’t make a jot of difference.
The occasion, in desperation, I needed something to explain how to carry one when doing long divisions, 100 unsorted socks laid out in sets of ten was ideal.
There’s an ecosystem or a science experiment at every turn, educational to the last.
It keeps my telly watching to a minimum because there are days the mess in the sitting room is too depressing to tackle, so I just go to bed with a book.
When I do finally make an effort and wipe things, it is much much more satisfying than it ought to be.