My mother is coming to visit and I've begun to clean. Begun to clean because I can imagine the comments and derision that will be the (not unreasonable) assessment of my housekeeping skills.
There's the carpet, less a carpet than mats of dust stuck to the floors with juice and dirt.
And the bathtub, a faithful replica of the mudpots in Yellowstone. There is the matter of laundry, which will probably need doing yet again before she gets here month end so perhaps it should be postponed, there are the brass candlesticks that need to be shined, my desk should be cleaned up and straightened, bills hidden and tucked away, stuffing gathered from the floor and repacked into the armchairs, candlewax scraped from tables, art projects to be packed away...And then there's the bathroom sink.
I'm not sure if there's even a sink there, at initial glance it's really more of a post-modern sculpture of a sink, held together with rainbow flavoured gobs of toothpaste, hair and whiskers, to clean it would be to assume that somewhere beneath this there is a sink, it requires a leap of faith, of imagination, I'm procrastinating by trying to recall the sink that might be beneath, back to the days when I first moved in...
Probably as it is it's worth money, to a connoisseur of the arts, I could rip it out and sell it on e-bay, clear up some outstanding bills...
Or I could clean it.