They’re putting something Stepford in the water

A couple of weeks ago I said something about surprising myself by a sudden affection for kitchenalia (I’ve just surprised myself again, by using the word ‘Kitchenalia’. I must stop this). Flicking through the Saturday supplement one Friday (it’s a perk)(I mean, I was flicking through the next day’s supplement. Not a six day old one. That wouldn’t be a perk, unless you understand perk to mean ‘something a bit crap’) I had chanced upon a very lovely oven glove. “Ooooh, what a Lovely oven glove.” I had said. With not a hint of sarcasm or snarl, it seemed I’d suddenly become a growed-up Ladyperson, without having to do anything. Not a thing.

As you may remember, this shocked me not a little.

I had no idea, however, how tiny the tip of the iceberg that would actually turn out to be.

For the admiration of an ovenglove can be explained away by a love for design, liking for a fabric used. What I said last night, however, can be given no excuse At All. There is no Reasoning, no neat tying-up, no simple explanation can be given to the depths of my domestic sinkage in the last two weeks alone, as exemplified in the following words, spoken last night, to my beloved.

From nowhere.

Prompted by nothing.

A propos of… sorry, I’m stalling, for shame.

‘Oooh! We get paid at midnight, don’t we? Shall I order a handheld vacuum cleaner?’

They words were suddenly there, hanging in the air in front of me. And the way that my beloved was staring at me, it was clear that he didn’t think that he’d said them, so it must have been me.

They made me laugh. A lot. I couldn’t work out the train of thought. It had just, all of a sudden, seemed like the most sensible thing in the world to say. And no, I have no idea why the purchase of domestic appliancage couldn’t wait until morning, but – and I think this was the logic behind it- if you’re going to buy something as potentially exciting as a hand-held vacuum cleaner, how can you possibly wait another moment to do it? The reason behind the logic, of course, I simply cannot fathom…

Well, I have one theory. But it can’t possibly be so. It is this: I was in an Oxfam the other day, and there was a book by Martha Stewart on the shelves. And I think she may have looked at me funny. Now I realise she hasn’t strictly passed over (except to the other side of a bloody big fence, but that doesn’t count), but I do believe I may be channeling Martha, in some small, pretty unimpressive kind of way.

Pretty unimpressive but getting worse by the day, mind – not to be sniffed at. Not to sniff at all, in fact, if you could possibly use a hanky instead. I could embroider you one, with a little boat, and Oooooh, did I tell you I started knitting again at Christmas? I mean, I’m not very good, but I’m only thinking of making a Oh Christ’s Tits, kill me now, it’s starting again, another fit of the wifey. It comes in waves a troughs (clean troughs, obviously). one minute I’m Anna Pickard, the next I’m the blogger’s own Stepford Ladywife. I’m a manic-domestic. It must stop.

How has this come about? Have I been to too many weddings and caught a case of ‘Wife’? Is there a cure? Is there a suppressant? Are there recorded cases of full recovery? And, most importantly, can anyone recommend a good hald-held vacuum cleanerdamnit damnit damnit, there she goes again.

That’s it. That’s it, I’m going to go and dance in the snow, on the way to the pub, in the late afternoon.

Screw you, Martha, and the hoover you rode in on.