Sometimes, very occasionally, I rather enjoy cleaning.
Usually, I hate it. It's time-consuming and labour-intensive and I can think of 50 other things I would rather be doing. But sometimes I like it.
Tonight was one of those times.
The reason for this aberration is the fact that during the past few weeks, the house went to the pack. I have struggled to keep on top of the dishes. The box from my new TV (a very big box) was still in the hall. As for vacuuming . . . well, let's just say it was more than due. So when the house gets like this, I start to yearn for it to be clean again. And when I'm prevented from making it livable by writing deadlines, or social engagements, or extreme heat, then I start to fantasise about cleaning -- and, in fact, other forms of housework as well.
Which brings me to tonight. All day, I have plotted and planned about how I was going to get rid of the box, finish the washing (and water the garden), cook a meal for once, do the dishes, vacuum, and even wash, the floor. All these things I have done and the world is right again.
Give thanks to the domestic goddess.