Domestic pride has finally started to win the battle against my inherent slovenly nature; I’ve been doing housework this weekend. It all started with me looking despondently at my kitchen window yesterday morning.  There were a few cobwebs, bits of fly remnants, bits of dried, curled-up plant detritus that had fallen from the basil and chilli plants growing there, bits of soil.  General mess.  As much as the spiders had been my friends in terms of pest control, it was time for them to find a new home inside the dust collector of my hand vacuum.  It was time to clean the bloody window. Yesterday was very warm again and despite feeling like I was actually, really dying, the sense of achievement gained from cleaning the window and thefuckingvenetianblinds, spurred me on to tackle other elements of the kitchen that I’d let go for too long.  Next up was the cooker hood, which had grown a skin of greasy fluff that probably had sufficient nutritional value to keep a ballerina going for a month.  It was so easy to clean only laziness had kept me from cleaning it up to this stage. The back of the fridge freezer and the floor beneath it (absolutely disgusting) got it next, followed by… the dishwasher…   The thing about dishwashers The thing about dishwashers is that they’re great for storing all your used crockery, cutlery and pans until the time is right and the load is sufficient to warrant to operate the thing and wash them.  This is great because it means that you don’t have used cups, plates, bowls, pans, chopping boards, utensils, cutlery (that covers most cooking and eating apparatus) hanging around on work surfaces waiting to be washed up.  It’s nice and tidy and it allows you to get on with kitchen activities unhindered, which is particularly important when space and work surfaces are limited. I thought this was pretty logical: use something, give it a rinse, pop it in the dishwasher.  So why is it that this is a completely alien concept to everybody who visits my house?  They use a cup, rinse it out, leave it on the side, or on the draining board.  They even see me do it: rinse the cup, lean over just a wee touch, open dishwasher, place cup in dishwasher.  There are usually one or two items in there already to show them how things go, so there’s a template for them to work to.  And just what do they think is going to happen to the item that they’ve rinsed? It baffles me, it really does. ...Anyway, back to my dishwasher… I slid it out from its slot under the worktop, just enough so I could get the part of the floor on which it sits and give it a good clean.  To my horror, I noticed that the back casing of the thing had melted.  This stuff is made of some sort of heat-labile (not used that word since I was a smart arse) plasticky cardboardy stuff, which is ideal for an appliance that pumps high-temperature water around.  The internet told me that this is perfectly normal for machines that are a couple of years old and the stuff is only put on for sound-proofing anyway.  Why even bother with it then? The temperature was rising, I was weak through hunger and hot and sweaty, but I only had the work surfaces and the floor to go.  I was done in a jiffy.  Done in a Cif-fy ha ha ha!  It’s the smell of cleaning products. Just as I’d finished, my sister and her feller turned up to pick up my niece who’d spent all this time behaving herself upstairs.  My sister was hungover and in need of coffee, which I provided for her.  We sat and chatted for a few minutes while she drank up and my niece got her stuff together.  They left me in peace and picked myself up to lock the back door to prevent an axe murder while I was in the shower.  And there, on the draining board, was the cup that she’d used.   Anything for a streak-free finish Today, my kitchen looks like a bomb has hit it, but that’s the unfortunate nature of the universe.  Undeterred,  I have continued on my cleaning-spree and tackled the glass panels of my interior doors and the inside of the dining room window, the bottom ledge of which had become a graveyard for numerous houseflies and wasps.  My cleaning product claims to give sparkling, streak-free results in seconds.  It makes no mention of lasting elbow damage and the nagging disappointment that comes with the realisation that you’ve missed a bit.   The appliance of a sucky thing and a hot-air blowy thing I’m girding my loins in readiness for vacuuming.  This is a chore that is made much easier by the deployment of a cordless, light-weight, yet powerful vacuum cleaner.  Unfortunately, the little dog objects to vacuuming more than I do and a good proportion of the activity is interrupted by him trying to bite the machine. My house is full of labour-saving devices that make life more tolerable.  I couldn’t live without my washing machine or my melting dishwasher.  I also love my tumble dryer for the way it dries towels into big, fluffy bales.  Alas, on days like today, with the sun shining and the wind blowing, I can’t justify using my tumble dryer on the towels that are now pegged-out and drying to a cardboard-like crisp on the washing line.  What pleasure I’ll get from using them after my shower as they scrape against me and take off layer upon layer of my skin.  People who claim to like using line-dried towels are either liars or masochists.  I’d pity them if I didn’t feel such contempt towards them. I’m off to take out my pent up anger in a fight with the dog and the Air-ram. Bring it!