Mrs Clean

I have been worshipping at the shrine of Hestia this week. Ruthless with my makeup, particular with my clothes, clinical with my bedside table and downright hygienic for once in the kitchen, scrubbing out the mousey cupboard with pine disinfectant, all drawers too, even the classic everything drawer. I made brioche, scones, soup with the ham bone Cissy gave me, Shepherd's Pie (properly); I ironed, stitched, knitted and mended, then cleaned out the cars to a poor standard so that is obviously my limit.

Since I sneer in my immigranty way at the vast cupboards, basements and storage units crammed with THINGS here (USA), I am honour bound to recycle and chuck, and do it with a will. My ritual items shine all the more in a clear space.

Achilles heel: pens. We must have a gross of them.

It is not about being materialistic or otherwise (is there a true opposite to "materialistic"?). I think I am arrogant about my choices, judgemental, arbitrary and wilful, and I cherish this. I love the feeling of utter certainty when I make a choice as much as the freedom of having the potential to choose. The whole thing is fun.