We see in the New Year at the house of Small Boy's Best Friend William, and very convivial it is too. Once we have finished the exhaustive and raucous entertainment programme (including, amongst other things, filming the kids making a human pyramid - smallest underneath, naturally) the conversation inevitably turns to New Year's Resolutions. William's dad glumly announces that he will be training to complete the London Marathon in sub-3 hours as his sister's boyfriend has already achieved this, and he cannot face the world, let alone the rest of his family, until he has beaten the man.
I have never been able to keep up with William's dad, whether running or otherwise. But happily I was not intending to make any resolutions. (Other than to watch series one of "The Killing" now that the series is finished on television and the rest of the world knows how it all ends. It seems about time.)
Husband, however, awakes on the first day of 2012, alarmingly full of energy and, seemingly inspired by William's dad, ready to make lots of resolutions.
For me.
"You could start by giving up swearing," he suggests breezily.
"I bloody well couldn't," I mutter. My head is hurting. Everything is annoying me already, and the New Year has hardly started. "Can you please at least take your dirty plate to the dishwasher?" I grumble at Daughter.
"And you could also try and have a more relaxed attitude towards the children," adds Husband. "But before you have a go at that, what about tackling the Messy Drawer in the kitchen?"
I grunt an unintelligible response which includes some more swearing and not a lot of relaxed attitude.
The Messy Drawer is one of many glory holes throughout the house where things tend to get tidied away (i.e. chucked away) when I need to do a swift cleaning-up operation (i.e. every Friday night before Husband comes home). Over the four years we have lived in this house, the glory holes have become distinctly less glorious and increasingly less full of holes due to the amount of stuff filling them. I do very well at walking past them and ignoring them most of the time, pushing aside the niggling sensation that I really should Sort Them All Out Soon. And thankfully Husband has not usually got enough time or energy to remind me about them.
Until now.
Now he has had a week off work and is clearly feeling fresh and invigorated. (I should have recognised the signs. He joined in with Pictionary at the New Year's Eve party instead of falling asleep on a sofa or coughing and making obvious tapping motions on the face of his watch at ten thirty.)
"Come on!" he says, jumping up. "No time like the present!" He pulls the drawer out of the dresser and up-ends it on to the kitchen table.
"Oh. My. Word," he says. "What on earth is all this?"
He points to a pile of vaguely crumble-like substance mixed in with loose drawing pins, pieces of chalk, ink cartridges, used chequebook stubs and some tap washers.
"Well. It's - it's a messy drawer," I say lamely.
An hour later Husband has separated out the drawing-pins, pieces of chalk etc and put them into discreet compartments. He has swept up the crumble-like substance and disposed of it. And he is now talking me through the new filing system for stationery and chequebooks. I must admit to being impressed.
"That's lovely. Thank you," I say. "I think I'll go and have a shower now."
"Oh no," says Husband firmly. "Now that I've shown you how to do it, you can make a start on the next phase." He walks over to the kitchen cupboards and opens the bottom one where I store a spare kettle, a juicer, two metres of old wallpaper, bubble wrap, three French hens, two turtle doves and--
"NO!" I cry. "Not the Messy Cupboard! Have you no mercy?"
He gives me a hard stare that Paddington would be proud of and waits until I begin the mammoth task of clearing out and sorting.
I have a feeling that 2012 is going to be a very long year.
I have never been able to keep up with William's dad, whether running or otherwise. But happily I was not intending to make any resolutions. (Other than to watch series one of "The Killing" now that the series is finished on television and the rest of the world knows how it all ends. It seems about time.)
Husband, however, awakes on the first day of 2012, alarmingly full of energy and, seemingly inspired by William's dad, ready to make lots of resolutions.
For me.
"You could start by giving up swearing," he suggests breezily.
"I bloody well couldn't," I mutter. My head is hurting. Everything is annoying me already, and the New Year has hardly started. "Can you please at least take your dirty plate to the dishwasher?" I grumble at Daughter.
"And you could also try and have a more relaxed attitude towards the children," adds Husband. "But before you have a go at that, what about tackling the Messy Drawer in the kitchen?"
I grunt an unintelligible response which includes some more swearing and not a lot of relaxed attitude.
The Messy Drawer is one of many glory holes throughout the house where things tend to get tidied away (i.e. chucked away) when I need to do a swift cleaning-up operation (i.e. every Friday night before Husband comes home). Over the four years we have lived in this house, the glory holes have become distinctly less glorious and increasingly less full of holes due to the amount of stuff filling them. I do very well at walking past them and ignoring them most of the time, pushing aside the niggling sensation that I really should Sort Them All Out Soon. And thankfully Husband has not usually got enough time or energy to remind me about them.
Until now.
Now he has had a week off work and is clearly feeling fresh and invigorated. (I should have recognised the signs. He joined in with Pictionary at the New Year's Eve party instead of falling asleep on a sofa or coughing and making obvious tapping motions on the face of his watch at ten thirty.)
"Come on!" he says, jumping up. "No time like the present!" He pulls the drawer out of the dresser and up-ends it on to the kitchen table.
"Oh. My. Word," he says. "What on earth is all this?"
He points to a pile of vaguely crumble-like substance mixed in with loose drawing pins, pieces of chalk, ink cartridges, used chequebook stubs and some tap washers.
"Well. It's - it's a messy drawer," I say lamely.
An hour later Husband has separated out the drawing-pins, pieces of chalk etc and put them into discreet compartments. He has swept up the crumble-like substance and disposed of it. And he is now talking me through the new filing system for stationery and chequebooks. I must admit to being impressed.
"That's lovely. Thank you," I say. "I think I'll go and have a shower now."
"Oh no," says Husband firmly. "Now that I've shown you how to do it, you can make a start on the next phase." He walks over to the kitchen cupboards and opens the bottom one where I store a spare kettle, a juicer, two metres of old wallpaper, bubble wrap, three French hens, two turtle doves and--
"NO!" I cry. "Not the Messy Cupboard! Have you no mercy?"
He gives me a hard stare that Paddington would be proud of and waits until I begin the mammoth task of clearing out and sorting.
I have a feeling that 2012 is going to be a very long year.
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