I don’t like housework. It’s pointless, the results achieved sort of race away at a pace that isn’t covered by words like ‘fade’ or ‘ebb’. Much the same can be said of leg waxing, eyebrow shaping and more. The tenuousness of the results that is, however the difference is, they’re all housework worth doing in my book.
However, I don’t need women’s magazines to show me what I’m doing wrong. Enough smug women with their clean (cleaned by cleaners) homes with their clean (cleaned by nannies) children and flaunting attachment to rich husbands who are never seen (currently frolicking with, and being taken to the cleaners by, the next ex Mrs we can only presume).
Invariably Mrs Smug’s work is described as interior designer or vintage stylist – which means she tits about floral bunting and spends weeks searching for the perfect scatter cushion. He, it appears, is an architect or antiques business owner, or has an advertising agency. He wears the trousers. Let’s face it, if he left them at home they’d have pompoms on the hems and a felt appliqué accent on one butt pocket. Or maybe a winsome codpiece adorned with vintage button ‘finds’ from a Parisian flea market he once refused to be dragged around for 13 hours.
Either way, I’m not in awe of these women. I used to think I wanted a life like that. You know, the perfect home but perhaps without a collection of Scottie Dog enamel buttons that are badly chipped and smell of old lady.
But it’s other women who are holding up these Aga-propping, flower-trug wielding wenches as role models – across a series of ‘Bet your house looks a right pit next to these’ monthly. So it may be time for a new magazine. I may be the editor. Want to contribute?