I have found the cure for my acute aversion to housework: Downton Abbey. And my magical little Kindle. Oh, and it seems that 12 days off don’t hurt either.
I thought I’d gone mad when I ironed the sheets yesterday after a top-to-bottom scrub-out of my bedroom. But today I would have hardly recognized myself, had I been paying any attention at all to myself. But instead I was in early twentieth century England, with my favorite new aristocrats, the Crawleys. Will Bates get out of prison? What will come of youngest daughter Sybil running off with the Irish revolutionary chauffeur? Will Mary and Matthew finally stop being star-crossed? I was too absorbed in all that to realize I emptied and scrubbed out every cupboard, cleaned the oven and the whole refrigerator and even made under the sink spic and span. And made a full meal of lamb, baked potatoes and rice to boot. It was all that hustle and bustle in the Downton Abbey kitchen, I swear. It subliminally programmed me.
Since I finished thoroughly cleaning the bedrooms earlier in the week and I also did the living room and dining room today, I am reaching the critical zone of having nothing left to clean. I am seriously considering cleaning out all the upstairs closets and – heaven forbid – the basement. Let’s hope I finish this damn series soon before I turn into a proper housewife with a completely spotless house. I mean, people, what’s next? Cookbooks?! Surely I must be stopped.
Kidding aside, last night when I slipped between the ironed sheets in my fabulous new carved French Empire wooden bed, I thought, “This is a bedroom fit for a queen.” Or at least the countess of Downton Abbey. So it must be a good thing.