Weekend Blitz

Here in Liverpool we have a particular turn of phrase for when our homes have suffered the slings and arrows of real life. The house looks like a bomb has hit it, we mutter to each other, before declaring our intention to gone home and "blitz" it: meaning that we will work our careworn fingers to the bone, returning it to it's former loveliness before said "bomb" (read children, too much work, depression, holidays or animals!) wreaked it's very own brand of havoc...

That bomb talk should be thrown about so lightly in a city almost brought to it's knees by the WW2 Blitz is probably testimony to the Scouse sense of humour, but some days there is simply no better way to describe a house that looks, after days of neglect as if it has indeed, been blown into dusty smithereens...

So here I am, on the verge of another weekend, resting on my laurels in a house crying out to be "blitzed". My own particular bomb is courtesy of a nine year old who has built a den under the dining room table,  a kitten who is wreaking beautiful havoc, a week lost to launching "Life, Love and Vintage Housekeeping" (oh the irony of writing about keeping beautiful house as I sit in my very own midden!!) and the kind of heavy melancholy peculiar to the pain of family upset.

So yep it's a mad, crazy, bombed-out mess. And you wanna know a secret? I quite like it. Sloth becomes me. If only because I am trying to convince myself  that it is a way of being, essential to creativity and the freedom of a kid who rather enjoys having a Mommy who lets him erect a permanent patchwork tent in the living room, while forgetting to feed him, or indeed provide him with his full quota of vitamin D...

This is of course a bucket of nonsense. No-one works better in mess. Rather you sit in the rubble trying to work, while simultaneously entertaining fantasies about rubber gloves and a big bottle of white vinegar. Then waddle through the chaos to find something passing itself off as vaguely nutritious with which to keep the child's mouth busy so he will not feel the urge to talk too much and thus disturb your dubious peace. Such is the lot of the work-at home Mother. A bucketful of nonsense tied with a guilt-coloured bow.

If I was a sensible woman I would step away from the computer right now, tie on a pinny and get down to it. But I'm not. Sensible is a state of affairs I have never been able to fathom.  And so I do believe I am going to order take -out pizza, slouch into my dressing gown and make space amongst the detrious in which to collapse in a frizzy-haired heap.

This bomb-site will wait. Happy Friday Housekeepers...

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