Some interesting news: this week I lost my house husband. Boo.
On Monday Timothy started his new industrial placement year at IBM, with two days of training in lovely Portsmouth. This is the beginning of a strange new phase in our lives: though we gain a second wage, I lose my back-patting status as Sole Breadwinner of Family Jeffcoat, and Tim his flexible hours and leisure time. Or should I say laundry time, because for the past year, he’s been mostly keeping the housework going in between programming and writing essays.
It’s not that I actively avoid housework. In comparison to cooking, I’m a cleaning whizz, and got a good amount of practice growing up, although I will say I’ll do an awful lot to avoid cleaning the bathroom (smell of Mister Muscle under the fingernails. Shudder). However, I have a tendency to be immensely forgetful about practical things, usually because I’m thinking about something completely removed from getting dressed/showering/making lunch, and this combined with a busy schedule means I move through the house in a whirlwind of unreplaced toothpaste caps and sagging underwear drawers. Which Timothy, bless his heart, patiently and meticulously goes around clearing up once I’m safely out of the house and can’t do any more damage. I have only realised how astonishingly and selflessly domesticated he is when overhearing conversations about other people’s comically inept partners. It honestly never occurred to me before this that some women actually have to go over a household job a second time, because their partner can’t remember to clean the oven top. Timothy always cleans the oven top. Especially when I’ve been cooking and have let the pan boil over, because I got distracted by a Really Interesting Thought about Iris Murdoch.
Anyway, now the Timothy-Has-More-Time-Than-Me excuse has been fatally punctured. We now have exactly the same amount of time available to keep the house going, i.e., not an awful lot. So I’ve had to wake up and smell the furniture polish at long last, and have been getting into the habit of filling my in-between times (hitherto filled by Interesting Thoughts) with householdy stuff. I tend to keep three or four jobs in some state of activity and flit from one to another until they’re all done. It’s probably not the most efficient way of doing things, but at least I’m going up and down stairs a lot, which can only help my exercise drive. And Timothy now comes back in the evening with the ragged but vaguely contented air of a Working Man Who Wins Bread, and knows his wife will have a little scorched something ready for dinner when he gets home. And on that subject, that’s all I have time for, folks. I haven’t yet washed up after dinner, and scorch marks take some scrubbing.
By the way, to the fellow sufferer who stumbled across my blog by searching for ‘Body pump ache will it hurt next time’ on Google, I can confirm after my second attendance that – yes. Yes it does. Welcome back to the Straight-Jacket of Ache, my friend. Let us groan together.