Exciting news and especially pertinent to the subject of motherhood.  I am in a child free home! (If by child you mean adult men in their late twenties and early thirties).  The silence is deafening, it is safe for the gin to come in from the cold (shed) and the only things in the fridge are tonics and champagne.

The telephone handsets are sitting smugly in their holders, and my iPhone charger is exactly where I left it.  The milk stays fresh in the fridge, no longer opting to end its life curdling in front of the unwatched television next to a pizza box and an ash tray.

Best of all my wallet is bulging with unspent wealth; unspent on Oyster card top ups and emergency fags.  We are, people, talking sunlit uplands.

Obviously it was only a matter of time before my new found freedom went to my head. ‘What a fine opportunity for a spot of spring cleaning’ I thought, a text book definition of impending breakdown if ever there was one.  Although I had long since abandoned the idea of raising the hygiene level of parts of the house above that to be found in a Nairobi slum, I have invested heavily in the necessary equipment.  A worryingly masculine trait that, being lured by things with a plug on.  Possibly transitional?  These devices have had very little use over recent years and the relevant instructions have long since hurled themselves into the re-cycling bin.  Again, not something that would bother a man for a single second but a grown woman really should have known better.

I started in the bedroomof Useless the Elder and having finally located the carpet I thought it best to have a bit of a go at it with the steam cleaner, just to loosen up the top couple of layers.  I then set to work with the vacuum cleaner until a strange smell filled the room (Or even stranger smell than that which had greeted me).  I turned round to find a huge ball of foam emanating from the Hoover, the result of suction on the wet, soapy carpet, and then it stopped working.  Which was probably a good thing.  (I bought a new, less temperamental one later that day).

On reflection I decided that the simplest way forward was total re-carpeting and instead set about burning the thousands of unopened, tear-stained letters from the bank to the boys, shredding them all not being an option in my anticipated lifespan.  Eagle eyed readers will realise at this point that I had probably over-inhaled the fumes from the carpet chemicals which is why the next thing I did was to melt an extremely large plastic pot doubling as an incinerator but at least it was outside.

And how does this tale of woe end?  Suffice to say it involves a sofa flying over a second floor balcony.  In a good way.  But sadly there are no photos.  I’ll leave the details to your fevered imaginations.