Forced into Housework

I am paying for my lackadaisical attitudes. Yesterday afternoon, I used the tiny key to the little garden store, and when I came indoors, instead of hanging it up in it’s proper place, I, well actually I don’t know what I did with it. And that’s the problem.

Losing it has made me look around this cosy little flat with a different eye. Now, I am seeing books that belong on shelves, here or back at the library, in all corners. There’s a pen in the bathroom; an apple on the chest of drawers; two pairs of shoes make a trip hazard in the hall; a new paper lampshade unopened on a chair in the sitting room; a new prospectus for the evening class I want to sign up for. No minimalistic clear surfaces in this home. The kindest thing you could say about it is that it looks lived in. When I came home from Ireland I was so struck by the surplus clutter that I swept a load of stuff off to the charity shop. But in the intervening days I’ve been involved in various things, coming in and out and housework has not been much on my mind, apart from clean kitchen surfaces and a hygienic bathroom. So little piles of things have gradually built up. Offers that come have come through the post that look vaguely interesting occupy a corner of the table. Papers I need to file are by the cupboard.

So to find the key, I need to tidy up. Here goes.

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