A new dishcloth. A clean sink. Kettle on. Life is looking up.
No, I didn’t go away anywhere, eat at a fancy restaurant or do anything remotely adventurous.
I treated myself to a new dishcloth.
I know. Try to contain your excitement.
The old one had been looking a bit sorry for itself for some time. It had lost its shape, acquired a rather peculiar shade of grey and developed that slightly unpleasant smell that suggests it might be harbouring an entire civilisation of its own. I’d washed it several times, but eventually even I had to admit that its best days were behind it.
So, on Sunday morning, I got a brand-new one out of the cupboard.
Oh, the joy.
Lovely and fresh. Properly square. No mysterious stains or suspicious smells. Just a beautiful, clean dishcloth waiting to fulfil its destiny.
I gave the kitchen worktops a wipe, followed by the cooker, the draining board and a few other surfaces that probably didn’t need wiping but seemed deserving of the attention. I even cleaned the sink properly. By the time I’d finished, I was feeling disproportionately pleased with myself.
It’s a peculiar thing, getting older. There was a time when an exciting weekend might have involved going out, staying up late or doing something vaguely irresponsible. Now I’m standing in the kitchen admiring a stainless-steel sink and feeling rather smug about a piece of cotton.
Mr Malarkey wandered in, completely oblivious to the significant domestic improvements that had taken place.
“New dishcloth,” I announced.
“Oh,” he said.
Clearly overwhelmed.
I sometimes wonder whether other people experience these little moments of domestic triumph, or whether it’s just me.
A fresh tea towel. Clean sheets on the bed. Stabbing the weird foil thing on the top of a new jar of coffee. Such small things. Such ridiculous amounts of pleasure.
Anyway, I put the kettle on, made myself a cup of tea and stood admiring my handiwork.
A new dishcloth. A clean sink. Kettle on.
Life is looking up.
Mrs Malarkey
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