9.14 AM and we’re up, showered, dressed, have had (and cleaned up from) and sausages-and-pancakes breakfast (thank you, Kev), the bathroom is clean, the floor is swept, the downstairs is clear of clutter. I wander down into the basement.
I pull a load of laundry out of the tumble drier, swap in some wet, fold the dry clothes, pile them up and pick them up to take upstairs. I look around.
Thanks to Kev’s heroic efforts, the basement is tidy and cosy.
I think of the tidy ground floor.
I am, momentarily, unnerved.
There are no little tidying jobs hanging over my head and I’ve lost something I never knew was there: the ever present guilt and sense that I’ll never get everything done.
Then I get to my bedroom and see the pile of old clothes thrown messily onto the chair by my bed.
Ahh, that feels more normal.
I’m not saying I prefer mess, I’m just saying it is my way.
