The Continuing Saga Of A Middle-aged Imbecile

Cleaning and Clothing

Irrespective of the words or images on the screens, which of the following Kindles do you think belongs to me and which to my husband?

     

I suspect that many of you would guess [correctly] that the second one is my husband's, particularly if you have a husband yourself. Why? Because it is filthy, the screen covered in vintage crumbs and greasy fingermarks. 

It isn't that I clean mine frequently - I'm not one of those people who is obsessed by screen hygiene - but I tend to blow off detritus and at least wipe off visible muck with a tissue or my hand before shutting it down. And I don't tend to drop crumbs over it, in the first place, even though I often read in cafes while eating. I've noticed that many men I know are really bad at keeping their technology clean, whereas they seem much more fastidious when it comes to their cars. Is this gender difference true in your house?

I have to give P credit where it's due, however. We've spent the last week or so giving our filthy house a really thorough clean, and he has definitely done his share of the work - probably more than his share, in fact. He does have a mischievous spirit, however. Some years ago I asked for a new wheat-bag heatpad for Christmas - you know, those things you can heat up in the microwave. He bought me one which was essentially a stuffed toy (Gromit, from Wallace and Gromet), and which is entirely useless as a neck/head warmer for when you have a bad headache, because it's the wrong shape. It has perched on the bedroom bookcase staring down at us in a slightly baleful manner ever since and I've been intending to get rid of it for years. So I finally told him to put it in the bag of stuff for the charity shop. Later, I emerged from the now sparkling-clean bedroom to see Gromit Baryshnikov performing on the barre:

The next morning I staggered to the bathroom, only to discover Gromit attempting to elicit sympathy from passing potential benefactors:

P seems incapable of doing many simple tasks, understanding simple instructions or remembering anything for longer than about thirty seconds. He claims this is because he is left-handed and dyslexic, but I have my own theories. He's always willing to help with household tasks, but his 'help' is often the kind you'd get from a ten-year-old. He has made misunderstanding simple, clear instructions into a fine art - unfortunately, when I'm stressed, my instructions sometimes tend to be along the lines of 'Put the thing on the thing'. Even worse, I sometimes just use random words - eg, I asked P this morning to 'Get the ironing board out of the bathroom' when in fact I meant 'Get the hair drier out of the drawer'. Miraculously, he understood this instruction, from context, though often he doesn't. My 'word salad' drives me crazy and my anger with my own brain unfortunately often gets transferred to anger with P. This is why we now try to each clean separate rooms, rather than happily sharing the cleaning of one room in a spirit of jolly cooperation, like people on an advert for paint.

While P does tend to be much more untidy and messy than me, I do tend to spill things down myself virtually every time I eat a meal. I've been known to return home after a lunch with friends looking like we've had a food fight. My friend, B, who has the same affliction, blames our breasts. 

At home, unless we have visitors, I've taken to wearing what I call my 'pyjamas' at mealtimes so the splashes, lumps, drips and smears are absorbed by them rather than by my public clothing. Don't worry - I don't wear these disgusting pyjamas in bed. I sleep naked, a fact which used to sound vaguely sexy and risque when I was in my twenties but now just seems eccentric and off-putting! It's one reason I dread ever having to stay overnight in hospital - I just don't possess appropriate night attire. I need to invest in a respectable nightie [not to mention new underwear], just in case I'm knocked down by a bus.

Another friend, T, recommends a bib for wearing while eating out, but I suspect that would be more embarrassing than just being covered in food. I suppose you could have glam ones made, with rhinestones and sequins for evening wear and 'lace tuckers' for lunch-time events, though I'm not absolutely sure what a tucker is. I think the phrase 'best bib and tucker' sprang to mind as I typed - presumably a tucker is an item of clothing that is tucked into something - I imagine into the neckline of low-cut frocks to protect ladies' modesty. So, if I'm right, it could act as a bib. And I'm all in favour of protecting my modesty, as I have so little of it.

The 'pyjamas' I mentioned earlier are an idiosyncratic suit of clothing that I would balk at revealing to even my closest friends. B, for instance, a woman of impeccable dress sense who wouldn't be seen dead slobbing about in the clothing I often wear at home, would be horrified. The bottom half consists of a pair of antique black jogging trousers (not that I've ever jogged in my life - I wouldn't know where to start) which I use for doing Silver Sneakers exercise videos. However, they are a bit too big, which is odd as I am currently fatter than I've ever been in my life and they are still loose round the waist, so when I first bought them it must have been like wearing a kingsize duvet (however, I can't remember ever actually buying them). Anyway, when I jump around, they tend to fall downwards to my hips, and that makes the legs fall downwards too so I end up tripping over the bottoms. A few months ago, in a fit of irritation, I chopped off the bottom few inches of each leg. I couldn't be bothered to sew a new hem, and one leg is shorter than the other, so I now look like Robinson Crusoe on his desert island, or a pantomime waif. Not to mention that the crotch is halfway down my thighs. Yes, I know I should have tightened the waistband rather than shortening the legs, but that's easy to say in retrospect. 

These delightful leg coverings are paired with a beloved old long-sleeved black t-shirt with a few buttons down the front - one of the buttons fell off years ago and has never been replaced, and another just opens of its own accord whenever it feels like it. In addition, the t-shirt is covered in splashes of acrylic paint as I went through a patch of wearing it to paint in. As if this were not enough sartorial elegance for one semi-retired woman to frighten the horses with, I sometimes wear woolly socks too [often odd ones, as the sock monster seems to have eaten one sock from every pair I own]. Well, my feet get cold, and the living-room rug is rather rough when you're exercising in bare feet.

If I was slim, I'd be more interested in clothing. B is always telling me I should wear more fitted clothing (as opposed to the baggy trousers and kaftan-type tops I prefer) to 'show off my shape', but she doesn't appreciate how unpleasant my shape is. I don't want to show it off. I want to conceal it. I can see the appeal of a burka. Anyway, I've recently joined Slimming World, so next time I'll let you know whether it's made any difference...