Dirty, pretty things.

Oh. My. God. As you can only read this, be assured that I am saying this in the mummy tone that means there's something amiss, rather than the hysterically comical squawk of a tweenager realising that they left their copy of Twilight in the public toilets whilst they're halfway home on the bus.

My house is a mess. A real mess. It is in fact so bad, that I am making BF take HRH to his mums' for tea so that I can get it cleaned up, as Mrs. Noodles and Mrs. Noodles' Mummy are coming round for tea tomorrow. The thing is, we just spend so much time playing that there's never enought ime to get any cleaning done. However, if you look at it, the list of jobs is rather long, and although BF pegs the washing out and does a little ironing every now and then, I am sadly lacking in the assistance department.

The truth of it is that maybe I feel guilty because I don't care enough about it. Don't get me wrong, it's not so bad that the Council are coming round in Hazmat suits with a skip, but it's definitely....... lived in. As far as I am concerned, perhaps I am rebelling against the societal expectation that my house should be clinically clean and pin perfect by spending my cleaning time playing with HRH or making mess (paints, glitter etc) instead of cleaning it up. And why is it ME that feels guilty about the mess? BF knows where the hoover is.

Perhaps I should take this first step into the uncharted waters of slatternliness (and yes, I did look it up) and enjoy life a bit more and worry less about the cleaning and going on a diet, more about sex (really, really good sex) and spending quality time with HRH.

Thanks Tracey x