Time on my hands

Was that me talking? Did I really say that I could not go for a lunchtime pint because I had my housework to finish? I knew that Stuart would understand since we were both fully paid-up members of the unemployed househusbands' fraternity and I had caught him red-handed (certainly hot-handed) the previous Tuesday, demonstrating his freshly pressed skills at the ironing board.

There was now no excuse for me avoiding the housework - almost overnight my redundancy meant a transition from early morning departures, late evening homecomings, serious overwork and travelling the world, to having time on my hands and what felt like house-arrest. To be honest, I had always seen myself as an enlightened "new man" willing to do my bit - put me in the kitchen and I was more than happy to make my contribution to domestic bliss. Forget the Monday to Thursday bags of prepared salad plus "something for quickness" which was my wife's speciality - come Friday night the kitchen was mine for the weekend and everyone was happy.

Fridays now meant something else -the day designated by my wife for the top-to-bottom house clean to be performed to her exacting standards.

Although I already possessed the equivalent of a provisional licence in vacuum cleaner driving following the occasional excursion with the Dyson, other areas of cleansing lay well outside of my experience. Intensive tuition was called for; total submersion training in sinks, showers and toilets, oven cleaning and sharing the secrets of streakless window cleaning. To say that my wife's approach was thorough is a huge understatement - I was being initiated into a secret world that she had controlled completely and one that she would readily admit was a source of considerable satisfaction and pride. We both knew that I was depriving her of something she loved but the logic of handing over this responsibility, freeing her weekends and giving me something worthwhile to do, was unquestionable. Having reached an acceptable standard in all key training modules, the L-plates were jettisoned and I was away - unaccompanied.

At first, I followed slavishly the prescribed order and methods of work; toilets, sinks, showers, vacuuming then dusting, kitchen then tiled floors - not forgetting to sweep and mop the porch. The cloths, dusters, detergents and equipment I used were all in accordance with the laws of cleansing, indelibly bleached into my wife's mental handbook of housekeeping. The cat seemed to know to vacate the settee when she heard the drone of the vacuum or scoot at the approaching splosh of the bucket of Flash - all part of the regular Friday pattern.

The sociologists call it a "strategy of independence" - finding a way to exercise a degree of control in a routine, repetitive situation which offers little scope for personal input, self-expression or initiative. It started in small ways; using different cloths for the showers, dusting before I vacuumed then finishing upstairs before touching the downstairs rooms, but soon I found myself being really radical by choosing different detergents and even buying new cleaning products. This in itself was a personal breakthrough.

Supermarkets held no terrors for me, since being a genuine foodie and enthusiastic amateur chef, I readily admit to enjoying shopping for food. Those aisles beyond the pet food, however, had always been foreign territory - strictly off limits. Everything has changed: I have become the authority on our supply levels of furniture polish and floor cleaner, I know exactly how many J-cloths we have left and whether the bleach will see us through another week. If I can't find the Stardrops detergent, near panic sets in - how will I clean those shower doors?

My other strategy of independence was more fundamental - for the first time in thirty years of marriage I cheated on my wife. My eyes were telling me that the amount of dust that had accumulated on the dining room furniture in the course of one week was simply not discernable. I was damned if I was going to spend time and effort going through the motions of polishing for no noticeable effect. My wife's inspections, after the initial, near-forensic-science-standard probing, had now become relatively cursory and I knew that I could get away with it. The solution was sweet and simple - all that was necessary was to spray the aerosol polish into the air leaving a convincing citrus perfume to testify to a job thoroughly done. I shall be ever thankful that she never got into the habit of buying the unperfumed variety. Perhaps one day I will feel the urge to come clean! I'm beginning to feel that I'm in control of things - time to get off to the pub with Stuart!