Due to certain happenings late last year my husband took over all kitchen duties. Now it is mine again. Yesterday I went back in, after a break of over two months, to take a good look and re-establish my position: crikey. There was stuff all over the counters, the cooker was so filthy that after I'd cleaned it I didn't have the energy to cook. We ended up getting chinese. I still haven't quite got it the way I like it and I can't work in the wrong sort of space. Then today I got back from work - more of which in a minute - and went in to make a cup of coffee. Remnants of last nights chinese now added to the general dissary: grim. I had to unfocus my eyes to get the coffee made and then leave at speed. Oh god, when will I get time to sort it all out? Is it all men, or just the one I happen to have attached myself to, that don't quite care enough to properly clean up after themselves? Actually, does it really matter? The only one that affects me is this one, who in every other respect (give or take) is THE one. I love him dearly but I just wish he cared about kitchens, or general tidyness, as much as me. We'd get along so much better that way. After all, I'm not obsessive. But a general standard of order is required here. And then there are the pressures of work.
This morning I went to the first of a weeks worth of dissertation workshops (ok, so I'm a student, still). After which I will have to produce a research proposal, followed by a twelve to fifteen thousand word dissertation on lord knows what. Feeling slightly anxious. But, I do it because I love it, mostly anyway. Sometimes I hate it, especially when I have to come home to a stinking kitchen. I do so wish one didn't need money to get help: what I need is someone who loves cleaning and is interested in philosophy so we can swap interests. When I come home late afternoon it could be to a sparkling house and an eager ear: joy!
Still, today, although I came home to a crummy kitchen and an awe inspiring workload, I also have a whole bar of lavender chocolate to comfort me, an hour or two to read, and then my husband will come home clutching a bottle of wine. Joy or what?