Dishing the Dirt

The floor is not a shelf, I tell daughter 4, looking at her pile of school uniform, strewn across the bedroom. I enter daughter 2’s room, the floor is not a shelf, I’m now raising my voice, as a wet towel is staring at me from below. I go into daughter 3’s room, I am now screaming the mantra that my Nanna used to say in her lilting, Scottish accent, THE FLOOR IS NOT A SHELF! I’m sick of sniffing knickers, like a dog on heat. If they are dirty, put them in the dirty laundry bag, I drone on, you can’t miss it – it says: ‘dirty laundry’ on the front. Leave your rooms tidy, I yell in a now slightly demonic and threatening tone, that I feel sure will have some impact. 

They leave for school like a storm cloud, moving out of the door and down the road, creating thunderous noise and sparks of lightening, as they move on mass, leaving peace and tranquility behind. 

I go and check their rooms. There are lumps under daughter 1’s duvet. I presume it’s fat cat, scaredy cat and possibly partner, hiding from the storm. I go into daughter 2’s room and see similar lumps. I’m now suspicious and pull back the duvet to reveal a wet towel. I march back into daughter 1’s room, whip back the duvet to reveal half her wardrobe plus a collection of biscuit wrappers. I peel underwear off the floor, as well as single, lonely, dirty socks. At Christmas I adorned a Christmas tree with all the odd socks I had collected since September. I always believe in carrying a threat through. 

Partner hands me a cup of tea, with the same look on his face as the morning before and the morning before that. What did you threaten them with this morning? he asks wearily. Airing their dirty linen in public I reply – job done. 

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