Dear Diary,
I broke down about a week ago.
I just couldn't stand it anymore.
I called our cleaning company.
We aren't earning like we used to (OK, so I'm not earning at all), so we had stopped our weekly cleaning services.
When you have to economize and get rid of the cleaner, you say you'll do it all yourself, but it just doesn't work out that way. Sure, you clean, but you do bits here and there, and the whole house is never completely dusted, vacuumed and mopped.
And then, one day, you sit down on the toilet, humming a happy tuneless ditty, and make the mistake of looking down. You see the kazillionth dusty little hairball and the camel screams in pain while the straw roars in triumph.
And so, dear Diary, our dear cleaner came back to us. Just once. Just today.
In the time that she would normally clean the whole place and do washing and ironing, she wasn't even able to get to Fluffy Bear's office. And she fucking worked.
The microwave was unplugged and put on the floor to clean the counter. The sofa was moved away from the wall to get to the radiator. The bed was stripped and she probably was totally freaked when the linen marched off the mattress on it's own.
And so we came home this afternoon to a foreign place.
Air smelling the way it should. Linoleum the color they made it. Throw pillows on the sofa where they ought to be. A spotless kitchen sink.
And then, dear Diary, the Crap Creep began.
It doesn't take much.
A Coke can put next to the microwave to go into recycling, my purse emptied onto the dining room table, the dogs shaking vigorously and sending their hairs flying in every direction.
By tomorrow, we'll be untidy again.
By the end of the next day the paw print collage will stretch from the back door to the living room.
Before a week has passed, there'll be gunk behind the bath taps.
But - guess what? - this isn't tomorrow, dear Diary. Not yet.
This is today.
And a clean house is pure blissssssssss...