Spring, Indeed....

Belgian Waffle is one hell of a blogger. Her post today addresses Spring and Spring cleaning. I love Waffle's posts. She takes self-loathing to new heights. I am an amateur in every way compared with her. Like the following passage. It fully describes how I feel about cleaning my place--and I don't even have any kids or animals to clean up after like she does. Still...as my sister-in-law (I won't say which one) (actually, I can't remember which one, other than it wasn't Trudy) (or was it?) used to say, "if the foo sh*ts,...wear it."

In the meantime the bright spring sunlight, which is a joyful, wonderful thing, gives me several problems, what with being a mardy old cow. The first is the house. There's a reason spring cleaning is called spring cleaning, and it's because the spring sunlight makes you realise just what a nest of FILTH you (I) have been living in all winter. Ye gods. I thought it was bad, but now I can see it's .. well. I was going to show you what I found behind the recycling box, but apparently I can't, because the thing that looked like an enormous dead spider clearly WASN'T DEAD. Nice. You'll just have to take my word for it. The not-dead spider is just one of an endless series of housekeeping unpleasantnesses that I now feel I must tackle, and they all seem inextricably linked in a wearisome way. If I want to get the front shutter mended, I must dispose of the Christmas tree in case the landlady takes exception to it, wash the windows, and deal with the chip on the bath. If it does get mended, I'll be able to see the state of the sofa, and I know I won't like it. Can't I just sit here in the sun? Maybe go and get a Cornetto?

Worse, even, than the house is the sight that greets me in the (smeary, toothpaste flecked) mirror, where the sun also gives a new, entirely unwelcome clarity. Who the fuck is that old woman and what is she doing in my house (and why hasn't she hoovered, if she must be here)? It's not that I let myself go over the winter, exactly. More like I pushed myself of a cliff into a sea of butter with salt crystals, bouncing off the jagged cliffs of Daim bar and Hula Hoop. Alcohol should also be included in this ridiculous simile, but I can't be arsed to crowbar it in.

And so on....Mme. Waffle is a British ex-pat in Belgium, thus the cool Brit idiom. Thanks, dear Waffle....I can only watch so much Al Jazeera English.