The Swede wandered into the kitchen to find me ankle deep in puddles and tits deep in tantrum, the floor destroyed and the contents of the fridge laid out unappetisingly over every surface in the flat. It was 5pm on a Saturday evening, and I was defrosting the freezer.
"Are we feeling guilty for something?" he asked with a lewd wink, presumably referring to my propensity for men and mayhem as opposed to mundane housework. "No" I snapped, all set to berate him for not noticing the cleaning I do around the place and then biting my tongue as I realised it's generally limited to my own bathroom. He laughed at my temper and reminded me that he'd done it last time (a year and a half ago) before setting down to watch The Simpsons. I recommenced hacking at the solid ice with my makeshift pick (a bottle opener) and boiled the kettle for the 47th time, huffing and muttering direly to myself. Because in truth I was feeling guilty. Not because the Swede does all the work around here (he doesn't) but because I had spent all morning and most of the rainy afternoon luxuriating in the easy company of a new beau. And I'm just not used to things being that easy. The irrational idiot in me feels undeserving and sits eating her hair, waiting for the other shoe to drop. She shouldn't. I'm prettier than I let on. I'm smarter than the evidence would suggest. I need to learn to accept good fortune with good grace, and stop peeling the silver linings off my clouds.
4 bath towels, 8 tea towels, two scalds and several floods later I gave up, and went to meet Annie for a pint. She was appalled at the idea of me spending Saturday night standing on a chair with my head in the fridge, thought it very un-Rosie. But it's very me. Swings and roundabouts, rock and roll. Tuesdays are dreary enough without housework - there's no better time to do it than on a Saturday night when you're still basking in Wednesday, Thursday and Friday's glow. I arrived home in a pleasant fuzz of wine, well-being and patatas bravas and made straight for ground zero to inspect my handiwork. The ice was melting; coming away in satisfying, weighty chunks.
"Are we feeling guilty for something?" he asked with a lewd wink, presumably referring to my propensity for men and mayhem as opposed to mundane housework. "No" I snapped, all set to berate him for not noticing the cleaning I do around the place and then biting my tongue as I realised it's generally limited to my own bathroom. He laughed at my temper and reminded me that he'd done it last time (a year and a half ago) before setting down to watch The Simpsons. I recommenced hacking at the solid ice with my makeshift pick (a bottle opener) and boiled the kettle for the 47th time, huffing and muttering direly to myself. Because in truth I was feeling guilty. Not because the Swede does all the work around here (he doesn't) but because I had spent all morning and most of the rainy afternoon luxuriating in the easy company of a new beau. And I'm just not used to things being that easy. The irrational idiot in me feels undeserving and sits eating her hair, waiting for the other shoe to drop. She shouldn't. I'm prettier than I let on. I'm smarter than the evidence would suggest. I need to learn to accept good fortune with good grace, and stop peeling the silver linings off my clouds.
4 bath towels, 8 tea towels, two scalds and several floods later I gave up, and went to meet Annie for a pint. She was appalled at the idea of me spending Saturday night standing on a chair with my head in the fridge, thought it very un-Rosie. But it's very me. Swings and roundabouts, rock and roll. Tuesdays are dreary enough without housework - there's no better time to do it than on a Saturday night when you're still basking in Wednesday, Thursday and Friday's glow. I arrived home in a pleasant fuzz of wine, well-being and patatas bravas and made straight for ground zero to inspect my handiwork. The ice was melting; coming away in satisfying, weighty chunks.
