Housekeepers I have the answer to the eternal problem of the messy house and lady moustache. It is simple. Darlings just invite someone you want to impress aroundon a regular basis: be it a gaggle of yummy mummies from the local toddler group, Mr and Mrs We Are Better Than You from across the road or a man who thinks he can read you like a book, by pyscho-analysing your bookshelves and inspecting your face in candlelight.
Something about inviting someone into your humble abode has you seeing your world and your toenails in a whole new light. I have been in such a frenzy today whipping the house into shape that it is now looking dementedly pretty. With my poor little boy banished to his bedroom with a gang of action men who will go downstairs on pain of death. I am the wickedest Mummy since mmm, somebody name a Mummy wickeder than me please??
My house is sparkling. I have depilitated everything fuzzy everywhere. From the bobbles on the carpet to the sideburns to rival Amy Winehouses’ creeping down my face. Red wine is breathing on the table. Candles are dissolving the smell of the mouldy brocolli I forget about in the kitchen. I am wearing my very silly false nails and a white blouse I like myself in and all would be well with the world were it not for the fact that I forget that as the perfect hostess I imagine myself to be, I am required to provide food. Wine and song I can manage tonight, but somehow or other food slipped my mind, and cheese and biscuits probably won’t pass muster…
Dizzy doesn’t describe me. Hey ho, hey ho, it’s off to Marks and Spencers we go. How do you Americans manage without the wonder that is M&S?