Mothers instill us with various characteristics that evolve slowly into horribly nagging flaws that drive people to the brink of attacking us with cookware. In my case it is being so appallingly anal that I'd be scrubbing the cookware as it beat me over the head, worried my grey matter might stain the Teflon. So, you can imagine my horror when my friend bought her first house and I discovered she was the closest living thing to a sloth I had ever encountered.
I rarely get invited to my friend's house on the premise that I stand there looking mortified and make unsubtle gestures about recycling and the importance of washing, while tidying the throw cushions. I'm ashamed to say that I once took the opportunity to remove some abandoned dishes from the living room back into the kitchen without her even noticing.
While I can tolerate most clutter (I'm a horrendous hoarder myself.) I find it hard to tolerate the slow sprawl of the primarily bedroom related crap into the living space. Books, CD's, clothes, trinkets and other items seem to emerge from their respective homes and crawl surreptitiously into other rooms and perch next to furniture and walls. These items are by any normal, house-proud individual returned to their place but not so with my friend, who allows the increasing piles of junk to breed.
The worst encounter I have had, with her somewhat animalistic approach to living, was when I literally couldn't find a place to sit down. Eventually I had to perch myself on the end of a paper covered couch while trying not to enact a tirade about respecting other people's property as I noticed a book I had lent her being used as a coaster.
Now, I'm not one to judge someone on their choice of lifestyle and if someone wishes to live in a house that resembles something you would see on television in one of those dodgy current affairs shows. Where the voice over asks if 'this is the filthiest house ever' and they are forced to battle a plague of cockroaches, just to get through the kitchen, then so be it. However, they shouldn't inflict it on their friends, family and household pets.
Perhaps its just me, perhaps the notion that 'cleanliness is next to godliness' has taken over my psyche (I do find myself getting a great sense of enjoyment out of ironing and dusting these days.) Maybe I should cut these sloths some slack. As they lay slumped on the couch channel surfing and trying desperately to conjure up an excuse for their lack of domesticity and if I was a more magnanimous human being I might.
The truth is, surely if you live by the fact that if you keep it clean in the first place it'll need less cleaning later on, housework should be less of a chore. If you are the only person currently at a dwelling how can you possibly coat your living space in piles of discarded junk? It's bloody appalling to let things get so bad your parents, yes your parents have to come and clean on a weekly basis. Do you want that in your life? No, of course you don't. No one wants their parents to revert back to when you were fifteen and they stood their yelling at you to clean your room, especially in your own damn house.
I have tried to quell the urge to clean my sloth friend's house but aside from brandishing cookware at her and calling in someone from an environmental health agency there is nothing I can do to encourage the use of cleaning agents and washing powder more frequently in her house. Although, just recently my friend asked if it was wrong that she had the desire to go home and clean. I felt my eyes well up with tears with the prospect that my sloth-like associate might actually be taking the first steps to a tidier abode. Alas it wasn't to be and the urge for housework passed.
I guess I can only hope that one day she'll crawl out from beneath the discarded papers, forgotten crockery and copious felines and actually make a break for the vacuum cleaner and when she does I'll be the first one there. With my rubber gloves and spray bottle, eager to make a start on the bathroom, bedroom, washing, ironing…