Schrodinger's Socks, Dog Chunks and Special Gripping Hands (lack of)

I think I may be to housework what Richard Dawkins is to religion.  I recognise its existence but cannot think of a single positive thing to say about it.

I have friends who dust skirting boards.  I know, I know, and, believe me, I've done my best to talk them out of it.  I've told them that dust is nature's way of ensuring you always have something to write in when ideas strike and that skirting boards were invented purely so that when we slide down the walls we have warning before we actually hit the floor and that neither of these things mean that Sunday mornings should be spent with a damp cloth in hand. And ironing socks - who needs flat socks?  I don't know about you but I've got plumpy feet, so the second an ironed sock gets put on it instantly becomes foot-shaped, (ie plumpy).  So, what I shall have to refer to as The Sock of Flattage is only flat from the moment it leaves the ironing board (and yes, those words make me shudder too) until the moment it hits the foot.  Which is a period of time in which it is IN A CUPBOARD.  And no-one can see it.  So its flattage (or otherwise) is a matter of pure conjecture!  It is a Schrodinger's Sock!  (Incidentally, the same applies to underwear, but since I have a hitherto unsuspected love for wearing ironed knickers we shall draw a discreet veil over Schrodinger's Underpants).

Seriously though.  If it's a choice between this or lying in til lunchtime, you're really not going to choose something that looks like a robot trying to touch its toes, are you?

Hoovering I can just about come to terms with.  This is mainly because I have a dog whose fur, at certain times of the year, resembles something woven out of cotton wool by small children.  He stealth-moults, when I come downstairs in the morning the carpet has changed colour and seems to be made entirely of chunks of Dog. This must be dealt with by means of repeatedly running the hoover over the carpet, swearing, unbunging the hoover, whose nozzle has inexplicably clogged up with milk bottle tops, emptying the tank which is now full of Something (I don't know what it is, and I am certainly not going to investigate), and then going back to repeat the process.  But it does mean that hoovering is necessary if you ever want to see your feet again.

Looks cute, doesn't he?  But there's a reason this picture was taken outside... he's moulting, and we can't find the house.

I look at it this way - if I'd been meant to do housework, I would have been born with a grip suitable for holding a duster.  Like Action Man and his 'special gripping hands'?  Remember him?

He looked like this.  Only not quite so..you know...underpanty.

 

 

 Although I have a grip that is second to none if you try to, for example, part me from a ten pound note, when it comes to holding a moistened J-cloth I am surprisingly feeble.  And, I reason, that is because I have evolved into a human form that regards housework as a Creation of the Devil.

And Richard Dawkins agrees with me.  Or, at least he would, if we could find him,  I think he might be barricaded into the sock drawer with dog-fluff.