The Domestic Struggle Is Real(ish)

To clean or not to clean that is the question… except, it’s a little more nuanced than that.

Having grown up with a mother who was obsessed with her home i.e. lean forward to take a sip from your cuppa & she’ll be plumping the cushions behind you, I’ve developed a much more lax attitude to housework.

I adore, & purchase, multiple cleaning gadgets that deliver all manner of sparkling household loveliness – except I don’t use them. I purchase them in the false belief that they will somehow imbue me with a sense of purpose & domesticity not yet witnessed by those who live with me. I purchase them not because I’m a house-proud neat freak, but because I loath & detest housework to my core. But surely, I hear you say, you can’t take pleasure in your slovenliness? Truth is, & I feel slightly ridiculous admitting this, I actually like living in a tidy home. The domestic tug of war is real, people!

When I lived alone in tiny flats they were as clean & chic as can be, but then a weird thing started to happen as I got older & started to live with other people. I began to feel that domestic chores where a form of submission or servitude, even more of a ‘why are you punching yourself in the face’ admission is that the people I live with now are my husband & son!

I can’t actually put a finger on when this domestic doom’n’gloom descended on me, but I have come to the conclusion that my feminist principles have sneakily struck up a treaty with my slovenly subconscious to ensure that I will forever be doomed to live in a messy home.

Any mind hacks on how to kick the jams out of cleaning & not mind the servitude of dusting will be gratefully received. Surely I can’t be the only person that hoovers in a simmering fog of feminist betrayal, or am I




  1. Sisters in mess, unite! Same. And again, same. I adore visiting the tidy homes of friends. I marvel at their clever ways of “everything in its place” and wish I had the same knack. Alas. Many days, I don’t care. Admittedly, only when there is somewhat important company or someone I want to like me, do I do the quick and dirty clean. Sweep, wipe the sand off the couch that the dogs carry in on their feet, and a quick dusting of the black surfaces. The piles are already piled so I tuck them up and turn off the lights. I have a lot to say. I just hate trying to find words while my hands are covered in gloves and I gross out at cleaning solution splatter flying toward my face.

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