Well, slap my thigh with a soggy Marigold.
According to a new survey, women spend three hours a week redoing housework that blokes haven’t done properly. What a disgrace. This dirty dig at the domestic skills of the British male is patronising and downright insulting.
And I intend to spring to the defence of our menfolk, just as soon as I’ve finished re-mopping the kitchen floor that Low the Elder allegedly cleaned this morning.
Given the state of it, he clearly used an old mop. Or the dog.
I suspect he’s hustling me. It’s that old ‘if I do it badly she won’t ask me again’ ruse, but I’m not falling for it. You see, my boys are already fully trained in household management. Tiger Mothers, read this and weep. Your offspring might be able to speak seven languages and play Vivaldi’s Four Seasons on the harpsichord, but my boys know one end of the Toilet Duck from the other.
It’s obviously genetic. Anthropologists this week revealed that our ancestors – called hominins – started to walk on two legs instead of four because they had to carry food. I disagree. I reckon Mama Hominin Low served up dinner then insisted that Kiddy Hominins get off their prehistoric bahookies and carry their own plates to the dishwasher.
Educating my brood to HNC level in Household Sanitation was a conscious decision. Ever aware that I will one day be the needy, overbearing mother-in-law from hell, it was a token gesture to ingratiate myself with my future daughter-in-laws. I can only hope the fact that their husbands load the dishwasher will go some way to increasing their tolerance levels when I show up for my tea three times a week and invite myself on their annual holiday.
There were other motives, too. I’m a raging hypochondriac who lives in constant fear that exposure to a sink of dirty dishes will result in dengue fever and possible death.
Then there were the terrifyingly vivid nightmares in which my boys hit their teens and retreated into their bedrooms, where they lived in a cesspit of cola cans and Pot Noodle tubs until I stormed the room in a bio-suit shouting, ‘Stand back, I’m coming in and I’m armed with Febreze!’
But, most importantly, I hate housework with a passion. It’s up there with diets and anything to do with Gwyneth Paltrow.
I’m in absolute agreement with American writer, Erma Bombeck, who once said, ‘My second favourite household chore is ironing. My first being hitting my head on the top bunk bed until I faint.’
The only redeeming feature of domestic servitude is that it burns up calories. But, then, so does pole vaulting and I’ve so far managed to avoid using the whirlie gig to catapult myself over the garden wall.
Taking all of the above into account, sharing the household tasks seemed like a sound plan, and occasional work-dodging ruses aside, my offspring have accepted that they have to do their bit with the duster. I’m sure that somewhere up there in the squeaky clean prehistoric clouds, Mama Hominin Low is looking down at us and beaming with pride.
So purveyors of inane surveys, lay off my menfolk. Their housekeeping skills may not be perfect but I can sleep easy at night knowing that no woman will ever have to clean up after them. I’m convinced that their domestic education and their Marigolds will see them through the important and demanding times ahead of them – their student days, married life, and the three days a week that their overbearing mother comes for tea.