A little bit about me ...

A new week, a second dental appointment and Gert is on holiday ... which is good, since I have many tasks for him to complete ... a pause for slightly evil laughter.

Opinion is divided at our place. I have the clearly defined boundaries of a princess and am therefore regularly referred to as 'princess' ... something I am happy to point out when wanting praise for various household tasks I have made the effort to do.

Over time I've learned that it's all a matter of how one presents work done.

To announce 'I washed ALL the windows today' in tones used to describe the first seperation of co-joined quadruplets is a sure way of winning the praise and gratitude of that person you require praise and gratitude from.

The other rumour doing the rounds at our place is that I may have been some kind of Roman soldier in a past life, which would explain the mounting evidence of my apparent lack of fine motor skills while violently weilding the vacuum cleaner or washing the dishes. I accidentally chipped every piece of Gert's divorce replacement cheap crockery although things have improved since we purchased a set of Denby dinner plates.

Don't get me wrong, I don't mind cheap but my little Roman soldier-like hands were clearly working on memories of pewter plates and cups, and probably some kind of serf to wash said equipment.

The vacuum cleaner has experienced a loss of lifestyle since I arrived. Apparently I should wear my glasses more often or perhaps it's merely a Roman soldier's impatience with silly things, but bits often break.

For months I was discretely slipping the entire head of the vacuum cleaner back on, not wishing to explain the big crack in the plastic piping. Plastic obviously experiences fatigue over time with me and soon the head of the cleaner wouldn't stay on.

Gert noticed the duc-tape.

The problem comes down to the fact that I consider housework a necessary evil. I love a clean house but I prefer not to get too involved the constant maintainance of that pristine environment ... and anyway, I can whip the apartment into shape in 30-60 minutes if need be.

Allowing myself time, I tend to start on what has become known as my 'Stepford Hour' about 5pm but 6pm isn't impossible ... it's all about when Gert will walk in the door. And it's not that he's an ogre, I am merely fighting the demanding voices of generations of Scottish and Irish housewives who inhabit my mind as a genetic memory, trying to shame the soldier and princess into silence.

Anyway, princess or Roman soldier ... Gert often has reason to say, with a smile of course, You're just a wee bit special, aren't you.

Well yes ... I believe I quite possibly am.

(Note: the photograph isn't me ...)