Following a mega cleaning blitz on my flat, I feel both mentally and physically cleansed. The floors are sparkling, the surfaces gleaming with anti-bacterial goodness, and there's not a dust ball in sight. It is a satisfying experience throughout, despite taking a great deal of time and psychological preparation to commence the undertaking. The thing is, as I just explained to my flatmate, I either ignore the growing dirt or feel it necessary to remove all signs of filth, as in every single last remaining speck, until it is certifiably 'clean'. I like to think of it as part-time OCD. Maybe.
The latest resurgence in female domesticity has been well documented by the media. Indeed, women across the country are no longer burning their bras, but instead, donning their aprons. The Women's Institute is no longer scorned by pretty young things, in fact, their membership numbers have sky rocketed. Baking cute cupcakes and spending painstaking hours on elaborate embroidery pieces are tres en vogue, dontyaknow.
I haven't managed to watch any of the acclaimed 1960s set Mad Men, but I hear the glamorous appeal of domestic bliss is quite spectacular. If scrubbing hobs and beating out carpets means I get to look anything close to as gorgeous as January Jones, just tell me where I can sign up.
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