Why is it that you can clean, and clean, and clean, and clean... and there will always be more dirt?
Why can't it just GO AWAY, if only for a few precious minutes?
I have been in a cleaning whirlwind for the past two days, attempting to ready Chez Clumsy for an urbane and sophisticated gathering of witty raconteurs and bon vivants.
OK, so it's a Doctor Who geek night, but the point remains: the apartment had to be purged, scorched-earth style. Let No Dirt Be Left Behind.
Now I've always considered myself a messy lass, but this whole home-ownership thing has really brought out the house-proud cleanliness Nazi gene that I thought had passed me by. My mother, bless her heart, is dirt's deadliest enemy. Dust, food scraps and rogue hair strands tremble and fold before her vicious wrath. She is a one-woman disinfectant and sterilisation machine.
Back in the day, I used to tell her to chill out, to calm down, that it wasn't as dirty as she thought, and "I'll get to it later, sheesh, I'm trying to watch Blackadder here!" I never understood why it was so important for everything to look like Cinderella's fairy godmother had just given it a twice-over with the Easy Off BAM!
But when I get crazy on a cleaning jag (which admittedly isn't as often as my ma), I completely get it. I descend to Howard Hughes levels of OCD, and start screaming at dirt that won't budge. Dirt you mop up, which then magically reappears. Hairs you sweep up, only to watch them march gaily back across the floor like something out of Fantasia. Seriously, how can we possibly moult that much? I could've stitched together hair extensions for the entire Pussycat Dolls by now.
But finally, tonight, after many hours, the apartment is clean.
However my massive sigh of relief is tempered by the fact that after the shindig, there's going to be mess everywhere, which will require yet another cleaning-up.
Are they absolutely sure Sisiphys was pushing a rock up a hill? Are they sure it wasn't a giant mop?