Confession time.

It has been a week since I mopped the floor. Most of the time I am indeed on top of it. Housework, and floor too. Well sometimes I fly around, away with the fairies-unintentionally. But you will find me walking on the floor, which as I mentioned, has not been cleaned for over a week.

In fact I have done everything else: bathrooms Thursday evening while my son was taking a bath, daily tidying up at least twice, laundry more then I care to admit. I have robots vacuuming upstairs all the time, so much so I am afraid they might be forming a union. Oven and other undesirable scrubbing occurs in the middle of the night, when guilty conscious prevents me from going to bed.

You might think that I hate mopping. Not really. You might think I broke the mop. Nope. You might wonder if I am on strike because my husband has not paid me a compliment all week. Wrong again, he told me I am pretty on both Friday and Saturday; even before he had wine.

Perhaps I can blame my lack of floor maintenance on having a canine house guest. The few times I had a slightest inclination to clean the floors the dogs were sleeping so sweetly I had to reschedule. Plus the array of toys on continuous display is not helping either. My son has set up a village of Pontypandy in the reception which I promised not to touch. And Lego city in the breakfast nook, which I again am not to touch. The dogs occupy the rest of the floor. So even if I wanted to, my hands are tied.

The worst thing about it is as days go by it becomes easier to live with it. Dust bunnies multiply, we feed them with dog hair and sand from the beach. They grow. My Husband is patiently waiting, trying not to say anything. My son says: It’s messy here, I like it. I am so guilt ridden I feel the need to write about it for the whole world to know.

Of course I could be cleaning it right now, instead of writing about it. So in the end it is your fault really. Shame on you.