I’m having one of those days again where I must clean all the things. This is bad. It means that inevitably, I will stop cleaning because I decide we need more storage. Without waiting for the sofa to sell, I will rush out to Risby, or Clare, or Ely, or all of the above and buy some gigantic piece of antique furniture to fill the gap that isn’t even there yet. Then, my mind warp the size of my aptly named Nissan Micra until it is big enough to accommodate 17 adults in addition to the gigantic dresser that I have just paid for. The nice people at the shop will struggle to lift the huge wooden lump into the boot, asking politely all the while if I’m sure I measured 102 inches, not 102 cm, and I will tell them that of course I’m sure, explaining that I had the Sydney Opera House in the back just last week without the seats down.
In the end we will give up, I will call husband and explain the situation. He will sigh and consent to renting a van. If this tactic fails, I will call Daddy and beg that he brings some sort of large vehicle down on his next visit. I will then realise how incredibly spoilt I am, return home in a guilty sulk and try to begin cleaning again. The guilt will gnaw at me again until I stop cleaning and decide to make everyone presents to show how much I appreciate them. The gift manufacturing process will create mess and the cycle will begin again.