The home exchange

We moved house 5 days before Christmas. It wasn’t as mad as it seems on paper. Three gents and two mothers came to help and we left one house and entered another in the space of five hours.

It is the house you draw as a child. Red bricks with four windows at the front and a red door. And we never saw it coming. Sure you see it clearly when you come off the nearby dual carriageway but we never imagined we would live here.

And I never saw myself as a cleaner either. I don’t know if it comes with the home exchange but I’ve never cleaned a kitchen like I clean this new kitchen. After every meal time, once the dishes are away, I grab the lemon spray out of the cupboard like a crooked gangster holds a machine gun. I turn towards the side boards with a menacing grin and shoot lemon zest all over each side. Grease, grime, alpha-bites what ever the stain it quivers in my wake. I wipe each piece of marble with the intensity of a Scots man in the olympics during a curling match. Once that’s done I come at it with a secondary spray that turns the marble into a mirror.

Tonight I even cleaned the cupboard doors. Up and down I went like I was in an aerobics class. The unborn child within my rounded belly jiggled within and I swear I could hear a giggle. As I stood back panting looking at the shining sage doors I realised it was my inner self laughing hysterically at what I had become. A clean freak?! House proud?! Not words I would have added to my personality list but stranger things have happened at sea, so they say.

The rest of the house, I’m afraid, is as much under attack by chemicals as the kitchen is. Let’s just say Harpic is my new best friend and no toilet under-goes a bowel movement without a swift following of thick blue bleach. My hands are now like sandpaper and it seems if this cleaning frenzy continues I shall be taking out stocks in hand cream. Maybe it’s just a phase but with ambi pure plug-ins and candles lit at the slightest hint of dusk my new home is smelling as sweet as roses.