The Girl is spectacularly messy, which I try not to make a fuss about but I am beginning to insist she picks up after herself. It’s like pulling teeth. Yesterday she constructed a shanty town in the living room – consisting of huge piles of cardboard boxes and cushions. It wouldn’t matter so much except that she and I are currently staying in Broadstairs so I can keep an eye on dad. The house is small so I seem to spend most of my time picking stuff up off the floor.
After I admired the town I demanded she tidied up the living room floor. She sighed and said, ‘Do I have to?’ ‘Yes’ I said firmly and came back to check a little later to discover she’d done absolutely nothing. It would have been easier to pick it up myself but as we all know this starts a pattern and ends up with you asking your hulking teen to empty the dishwasher, only to be greeted with a shocked stare as though you’ve just ordered said teen to run naked down the High Street.
‘You’re so messy!’ I snapped helplessly at The Girl. She considered this. ‘Moles are messier.’
Moles? How did moles come into this?
‘Moles can’t see very well. So they never remember where they put stuff so their houses must be in a terrible mess.’
You can’t argue with logic.
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