Tuesday, May 18

Cleanliness is so next to Godliness! 

Home keeping is grisly business, more so if you’re a cleanliness freak like myself. Spring’s long gone, and I haven’t wrapped my rounds of tidying up yet. I continually find dust wading its malevolent way back into every nook that I, with poise believe, have scoured through. Trust me, I have tried putting the trendiest of gadgets and brushes and wipes and sprays to use, with every knack that any living human of my tribe could ever possess. But dust - there simply is no busting wholly. It takes a certain allegiance coming from a resolute fighter, to triumph over.

Then again, I do have my precincts --- I cannot lug that brawny vacuum all by myself to all those remote attics and wicked crannies. And that’s when I forlornly think back to the good old Indian broom - handy and robust all the same. I am wary of using gloves, but cannot get my hands to stroke all that grime directly. I still reminisce the initial days, when I was fraught with living down the olden days of glory, when I used to lead a laidback, easy life, courtesy my maid. Invariably when I have to empty the trash. I loathe the very thought of carrying soggy, rotting vegetable peels, smelly leftovers and soiled tissues to the disposal unit, cleaning the baskets, and lining them with fresh plastic. My poor maid took care of all that very painstakingly, and my involvement with all that garbage was limited to just filling it up.

Sometimes the routine gets so dreadful that I end up having all that dirt ramble through my dreams. Those soapy spots on the bath mirror, those bolshie little specks of dust on the telly…they come to haunt me one way or another. Unsurprisingly, I can truly relate to Monica of F.R.I.E.N.D.S and Jerry of Seinfeld, albeit I’m just short of a clinical disorder; and I don’t shy away from admitting so. Also, I’ve come to understand that there is, indeed, an indubitable boon in this, contrary to what many outside the clan would rather suppose. One doesn’t have to fret about germ-infestations or unsanitary conditions when one is a cleanliness maniac. No guilt trips or sullied scruples either. Come winter, spring or summer, the mop always beckons…

Post a Comment