March 11th, 2009

Cleaning Up My Act

I dust the model village and its inhabitants with a little, retractable brush that came out of Ailz's make-up bag.  The dust curls away like smoke, vanishing into the air to settle someplace else. That was always my objection to housework; you only ever move the gunk around; it's a treadmill you never get off.

A bit like life, in fact.

Life as housework. Keeping the dust at bay- the dust to which we shall all return.


I was never a great one for housework- and it's not just because I'm a bloke. My three primary female role models- my mother and two grandmothers- were exactly the same. As middle-class, mid-century women they used to pay people (poorer women) to do it for them.

And then there's the Bohemian thing. How very bourgeois it is to care about appearances- and what the neighbours think. Dirt and dust are real. Like sex, like death. Embrace them all! 

But, I don't know, I seem to be changing. These past few weeks I've taken to carrying a duster in my pocket.  Now, if I find myself at a loose end, I can whip it out and drag it across surfaces. The dust is encroaching and will win in the end- but I intend to go down fighting. Non passeran!

We have friends from church coming to tea this afternoon and I have been tidying, dusting- even mopping floors. And because these are  friends from church I have temporarily purged the model village of its "figures of an erotic nature". (Check 'em out here.)  I lift the little, naked people out of  the castle keep,  tickle them all over  with the retractable make-up brush and put them away in a cupboard.  The dust swirls and disappears. Does this make me a hypocrite?