I'm not quite sure how, but *somehow* I managed to write and edit and submit the first story I've written in about a year. Phew, and again, phew!
It seems when you've got offspring it's always a choice. Something's got to give, and this week it was the housework. Ah well.
I've always been what my mother and stepmother call a slut - in the original sense of the word (I think). I mean, I've slept on bare mattresses in a friend's hall next to cat litter boxes. I remember it started to rain one night and I lay there with cold water dripping onto my face and the stench of cat piss in the air, and thought I must be somewhere in the vicinity of rock bottom.
But since J turned up somehow keeping the home clean makes it feel less like I'm being submerged in an inexorable avalanche of dirty laundry, cat litter, mashed up food and wet towels. Where did it all come from, all this stuff? I thought I was a young, bohemian artist. Turns out I was a middle-aged housewife with a double chin and a bottle of bleach in the cupboard, all along.
Or maybe I just aged ten years overnight. That happens in fairy tales, too.
Everything changes, but it seems there will always be cat litter somewhere in the picture.