I’m not That Sort of girl. Or, is dusting is a matter of genetics?

Mrs B dusting

The downside of having fires is dust. Obviously wood-burners, marvellous things that they are, do their best to keep it to a minimum, but still, more dust is generated than by the soulless central heating. Add to this wooden floors, beams, thatch and the great drifts of dog hair that nestle constantly against the skirting boards and you have a dusting schedule reminiscent of the infamous Forth Bridge paint works.

Now, until recently my policy has been that the vacuum should not appear on more than a bi-weekly basis, any more is positively Suburban. And as for dusting – urgh. Those manky old bits of cloth that seem to produce more dust than they clear and leave your hands with a strange metallic smell*. Well frankly it’s too depressing an experience to bother with. After all, what really is the point – we live in the country and have a dog and a toddler? We should just accept that things will get messy, muddy and dusty.

Sadly Mr B does not agree. Now he knew from the beginning that cleaning was not my thing. I have not inherited the tidy gene. It is completely absent in my family. However, it appears that Miss B has inherited it. She is particularly keen on “putting” crayons, farm animals, trains etc. back in their respective boxes, good for her I say. I think that this proves my point that the cleaning gene is dominant – it certainly tries to be in our house. Yet given that this is, as far as I am concerned, a genetic issue, I am amazed that Mr B still persists in trying to change me.

We makes attempts at compromise. He says he is happy to assist if asked and offers helpful suggestions like, “tidy first, then clean.”  And I promise I really will try harder. But all too often it ends in stalemate and veiled references to divorce. That is until a week or two ago when Mr B had an asthma attack after being coerced into cleaning the fireplace. In fairness to the man, there was a substantial amount of brick dust loitering about, so it wasn’t just the normal sort that offended his lungs. Anyway, it did confirm his suspicions – that I make him sick.

So with strategic brilliance, it appears that I have been out manoeuvred – the dusting now has to be done on a regular basis and Mr B is unable to assist, on doctors orders.

However, perhaps the game is not yet up. There is another way. Although it has its dangers, as bringing in any third person to a marriage does – a cleaner. I’ll keep you posted.

*Apparently this is my fault. You are supposed to wash them – regularly!

So, what sort are you?

Where cleaning is concerned, it seems that we fall into two genetic groups: those that clean with righteous zeal and those that avoid it until absolutely necessary. Two examples spring to mind, which sort are you?

Recently, the ubiquitous Mr Fry (in an interview or a programme or a tweet or something, can’t quite remember) suggested that the best way to impress your guests with your house pride, was to spray some polish onto a radiator shortly before they arrive. It gives the impression of sparking cleanliness without any effort. Well, when would he have the time to dust anyway.

A literary example will have to do for the Other Sort. It comes from one of my favourite books, Kazuo Ishiguro’s brilliant Remains of the Day (also a truly wonderful film  – watch and read if you have not done so already). Stevens, one of the last great butlers, tells with pride how he was able to influence world events with his immaculately polished silverware. It diverted attention during some very tense diplomatic negotiations, which paved the way for the appeasement of Germany. Just goes to show how dangerous this cleaning malarkey can be.