My husband thinks I have started doing more around the house. He’s wrong. It’s just that I’ve discovered something about him – he’s easily fooled.
A few weeks ago I bought some rather expensive, rather lovely room fragrance (the middle classes don’t have air fresheners, they have room fragrance) and have been sparing with its usage due to its exorbitant price. Shortly after I had bought it I summoned up the energy to push the hoover around but couldn’t be bothered to tackle more complicated cleaning. I gave the air an expensive spritz a few minutes before my husband was due home from work.
“The house looks spotless.” He said, as soon as he walked in the door. “You must have been at it all day.”
The following week I gave the hoover a miss and just squirted the sofa with Jo Malone. No sooner had my husband walked in the door than he was complimenting me on my cleaning endeavours. That weekend he wouldn’t let me lift a finger. “It has to be my turn,” he said as he dusted the light fittings, “you did that big clean a few days ago.”
I have to be careful not to overdo it – I don’t want him rumbling me – but as long as this Pavlovian response continues, I’m relieved of the burden of arduous housework. Now I just have to stock up on perfume – it would never do to run out.