I’ve tidied today. Picked up other people’s stuff as well as my own and either put it where it should be or in the bin (if that’s where it should have been). This has included toys, papers, toys, receipts, drinks bottles (left on the sofa), cereal packets, crisp packets (also left on the sofa) dirty knives, books, toys, crockery, more papers, bags, toys, clothes and toys. I’ve swept up crumbs, wiped down surfaces and washed up.

And then people came home…and dumped their crap all over the places I’d spent my day tidying.


Carrier bags dumped in the hallway, coats, bags and food dumped on the sofas, crumbs and spilt soup and dirty knives strewn on the kitchen worktop, dishes placed on the side – not in the sink or draining board – the dregs of the meal not tipped away. Mugs with tea dregs in the bottom, staining the white china brown. The butter left in the wrong place.

My day’s efforts vanished – POOF! – in a cloud of Wotsits dust.


Life is short, people. And yet there I am, my day disintegrated into nothing. And not because I’ve done nothing, but because nobody respects the things that I do. And yet, if I didn’t do them, people would notice then and moan. From where I’m standing it’s lose:lose.

With both children in bed, I start to tidy around the lounge (again!).

‘Don’t. I’ll put the train set away,’ Husband offers, sat on the sofa, football on TV, iPad in hand ‘…at half-time.’

If he can multi-task two media sources at the same time, why not tidying and football?

‘You relax,’ he instructs me. Instead, I know that as he’s offered to tidy away the train set that is all hell be picking up, so I return Boo’s school uniform to her room and then settle down.

The trouble with waiting for half time is that it involves sitting through football. But as there’s nothing else appealing on our limited available channels I decide to let it drop.

Half time and Husband does indeed pick up the train set. Unfortunately he packs it wrong, leaving the massive crane to last so the lid won’t shut on the hamper.

‘The lid won’t fit now,’ I point out.

‘Yeah, but I’m not going to tip stuff out to re-do it,’ he says out as he balances the lid on the top.

No, I will.

He then goes and places the hamper in front of the overflowing toy box.

‘It doesn’t belong there,’ I point out, highlighting the massive space in the alcove shelving where the box obviously lives.

He pushes the box 99% per cent of the way there. And then leaves it.


And the train set was where it stopped too. He didn’t follow it up by putting Noodles’ ride-on car away, or returning the stray pirate to his ship or picking up the bottle of bubble stuff or train ticket lying on the floor. No, that’s for me to do.

When I finally keel over (quite probably from a stroke caused by another dose of apoplexy) I wonder how long it will take them to clear away my body. And whether it will actually get a proper burial, or whether I’ll just get shoved into a corner, in front of an over-flowing toy box.


10 thoughts on “Apoplectic”

  1. I tried clicking “like” a bunch more times to get you what you deserve but it didn’t work. Your ending IS CLASSIC!! Or do people say EPIC now? I loved the whole thing!

    Your problem is that you do things “Too good. Too right. Too Perfect.” Therefore you’re the most qualified person for the job and will keep getting rehired. Do things like your husband… wrong.

    1. As the football finished and Husband left the room I couldn’t help myself – I realigned the lid on the train set (I didn’t have to tip anything out either) and moved it the four inches required to put it back properly. At which point Husband returned to the room (the ‘LOUNGE’ – I was going to type ‘living room’ in the post, but changed it to ‘lounge’ just for you!).
      ‘Are you trying to make a point or something?’ he asked.
      ‘No,’ I innocently replied.
      ‘No. I’ve made my point on WordPress,’ I thought evilly to myself. Mwah ha ha.

      Thank you for the like(s). At least you appreciate me. 🙂 Can I adopt you?

  2. The question isn’t whether you will be cleared away in a proper amount of time or in a good fashion, but instead how long they will last until they are buried in their own filth, ridden with germs, and dying from malnourishment since you’re not there to do it all for them. I wonder how long they would wait for you to get on dinner and such never realizing that you’ve expired right there in front of them and have lain there for days under the stuff they’ve chucked on top of you as they’ve walked by….you are after all SuperWoman! Too funny. As usual, an excellent perspective, an utterly enjoyable post, and in this case a most fab ending. Much admiration for what you do put up with on a daily basis and your ability to entertain us all so well in spite of it all.

    1. Hahaha. Very true. It would definitely take until bedtime when Noodles would want Mama and Boo would refuse to clean her teeth for Husband. Then something might click…although how much longer it would take to ACT on it could be a while longer.

  3. Hahaha! Love this…thank you so much for letting us laugh at the expense of the Gluestick family… Love it. my kids are grown and hubby is petty tidy, but oh, there were days…. EPIC ENDING, btw! *evil laugh*

    1. As long as there’s light at the end of the tunnel I shall try to deep breathe and stave off the coronary from apoplectic rage. I do look forward to the day I only have to clear away my own clutter.

  4. I remember reading somewhere that men’s brains are programmed to only complete around 90% of any given task – hence not moving the box the extra 4 inches or shutting the lid. I notice this all the time with my husband as well (and my sons…). So frustrating! X

    1. Oh my God – I’m battling against brain function?! If they can only do 90% of a job there’s only one thing for it: add an arbitrary 12% to any task, then they should do what needs to be done whilst the still think they’re slacking off. We can beat them at their own game.

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