A LADY AT LEISURE
‘I have always quite enjoyed housework, so long as I don’t have to do it all the time’
A lady at leisure I
WORDS FIONA ARMSTRONG ILLUSTRATION BOB DEWAR
t’s that time of year again: pink plastic gloves on, feather duster out. No, this is not some kinky ritual in the MacGregor
house. It’s my annual spring clean – and, being brought up in the north of England, I find it hard to break the habit. They scrub their front steps there – or they used to: look up ‘scrub’ on the internet these days, and you’ll be told how to get your hands squeaky operating-theatre clean, or be offered one of those perfumed grainy creams for tackling your cellulite. Talking of that, the chief finds my efforts to
bottom things most amusing. Like many an army man, he washes once a week, whether he needs it or not. I am told that the navy and air force are much more concerned with hygiene. At least the constant presence of the
vacuum cleaner has solved a slight mystery for him, although I doubt very much it has kept him awake at night all these years. My faith- ful Henry hoover sits in the cupboard off the kitchen. ‘Oh, that’s what it’s for… I thought it was a big red cooking pot,’ he offers thought- fully as the thing whirrs into dust-sucking action and the dogs run for cover. I think it’s safe to say he’s not house
proud. Then, being from the north, I wouldn’t want a man in a pinny, would I? But I wish he would shut cupboard
doors. Is that a man thing? Do other wives have the same problem? Please let me know. I can guarantee that, when I get home, there will be a dozen cupboards standing wide open. I know that chiefs are beyond such petty domestic things, but is it really too much to ask? I try not to nag, but this little voice inside me is shouting, ‘Shut the blasted (or something like that) door!’ Then, as our only female prime minister
once famously said, ‘One of the things being in politics has taught me is that men are not a reasoned or reasonable sex.’ It is trivial, yes, and when I put it against his million-and-one plus points… Besides which, it’s not really the chief that makes the mess. It’s the Naughties. Being dogs, they don’t like the idea of a concerted effort at a spring clean one bit: all that green, pine-smelling disinfectant and yellow, lemon- scented scouring cream. When the marigolds go on, they’re off: preferably to roll in some- thing vile outside on the grass. The cocker spaniels aren’t too bad, but love
him as I do – yes, he is my baby – I have to admit that the Norfolk terrier is the messiest of the three. The puppy, as he’s still known aged five, does shed hair. He also tends to be on the whiffy side. When Rummie goes to get his long, mustard-
coloured locks stripped (I was told he should never be clipped), they give him some sort of bubble bath and he hates it. He bristles with indignation, refuses to look at me on the way home, and can’t wait to get out of the car so he can rub up against the first rotting mouse or dead toad he might find in the nearest flowerbed. I’ve always quite enjoyed housework, so long
as I don’t have to do it all the time. But perhaps this cleanliness thing really is making people miserable. As one Scottish author famously observed, nothing really is work as long as you would not rather be doing something else. But then J M Barrie wrote Peter Pan, which means he was an expert at sprinkling magic dust…
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Dogs shedding their hair and chiefs leaving cupboard doors open make it hard to be house proud, even if you were brought up to scrub your doorstep until it really shines
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