The flat had become disgraceful. A few weekends away and the darkening evenings had halted all forms of domestic management. So I got up at 8am and started cleaning. And carried on cleaning. Floors were mopped, bathrooms were scrubbed, the fridge was audited (the prize find being a jar of ancient sun-dried tomatoes that had turned into candy floss). I was being so sensible that I even emptied the hoover bag without the usual mushroom cloud of filth erupting over everything I'd just cleaned.
My girlfriend was banished to the spare bedroom with a bin bag to start working through the tonnes of unwearable clothes that, as an inveterate hoarder, she insists on filing in a growing pile in the middle of the room. Progress was made, although I expect to be finding items from Topshop's summer 2004 collection hidden at the back of cupboards and under the bed for the forseeable future.
And now it's all done. We celebrated with a large brunch only slightly ruined by me following her every move around the kitchen with a dustpan and brush. There's still 3/4 of the weekend left and I've achieved so much already. That tricky debut novel should be polished off in time for Come Dine With Me.
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