No, this is not some Coronation Street themed post featuring the travails of Rita, Gail and the comatose Nick (how can they tell the difference?)
No - the rover I am referring to is the darling daughter who returned home for the weekend no more than 2 weeks after we last said goodbye. Of course, she came home for a party, not to see her aged parents or her (now gainfully employed) brother - don't be daft. Still, it was remarkable the change that a scant fortnight of living away from home had wrought.
On the first night, I found her in the kitchen stroking the dishwasher and crooning. Slightly perturbed, I asked what she was up to. "It's just that I miss the dishwasher so much," she replied wistfully. "I never appreciated it until now! And mum, the house is so CLEAN!"
Later on, she admitted that I was right about one aspect of domesticity. And that is that there is a distinct difference between cleaning and tidying. I am in the habit of tidying up the night before the cleaners come. The children have always derided me loudly - "Why are you cleaning when the cleaners are coming tomorrow? You're so old/dumb/mad/loony," (perm any one from 4). Fruitlessly, I tried to explain that I want the cleaners to clean not tidy up, but the howls of derision drowned me out.
Now, lo and behold! She is transformed and proudly demonstrated to her brother that this area is untidy, while this is dirty. He looked so interested.
The bit that really made me laugh was her disgust that her flatmates can't tell the difference between a tea towel and a hand towel. "It's revolting!" she cried indignantly. "They dry their dishes on the hand towel and they dry their hands on the tea towel. I had to sit them all down and explain it to them!"
I bet she was popular. I don't care. Somewhere along the line, some of my incessant nagging went in and stuck. I can die happy!
No - the rover I am referring to is the darling daughter who returned home for the weekend no more than 2 weeks after we last said goodbye. Of course, she came home for a party, not to see her aged parents or her (now gainfully employed) brother - don't be daft. Still, it was remarkable the change that a scant fortnight of living away from home had wrought.
On the first night, I found her in the kitchen stroking the dishwasher and crooning. Slightly perturbed, I asked what she was up to. "It's just that I miss the dishwasher so much," she replied wistfully. "I never appreciated it until now! And mum, the house is so CLEAN!"
Later on, she admitted that I was right about one aspect of domesticity. And that is that there is a distinct difference between cleaning and tidying. I am in the habit of tidying up the night before the cleaners come. The children have always derided me loudly - "Why are you cleaning when the cleaners are coming tomorrow? You're so old/dumb/mad/loony," (perm any one from 4). Fruitlessly, I tried to explain that I want the cleaners to clean not tidy up, but the howls of derision drowned me out.
Now, lo and behold! She is transformed and proudly demonstrated to her brother that this area is untidy, while this is dirty. He looked so interested.
The bit that really made me laugh was her disgust that her flatmates can't tell the difference between a tea towel and a hand towel. "It's revolting!" she cried indignantly. "They dry their dishes on the hand towel and they dry their hands on the tea towel. I had to sit them all down and explain it to them!"
I bet she was popular. I don't care. Somewhere along the line, some of my incessant nagging went in and stuck. I can die happy!
