My Life on a Plate

Doormats

I've already put in a request to be a man in my next life. I think I'm going to add a clause stating I want to be a male golf fanatic too. Maybe I should also ask to be a morning person because as I see it, the only downside of being the golfer in the family is having to get up early.

I mean, it's okay when you can just load your clubs into the boot and drive off leaving the beds unmade, the pots unwashed, the laundry still in the washer and the bins unemptied. Don't you give it a second thought my dear, all those jobs are my responsibilty after all.

I always intend to get all the chores out the way then have a little free time to myself before the golfer arrives back, but that never pans out either. Take this morning.

I bought a new doormat the other week. I liked the sentiment on it. 'A messy house is a happy house. This one is delirious.' The colours also match my kitchen. What I didn't take into account was the thickness of it or the label warning it will shed fibres for a while. Every time you go outside you have to move it out the way or the door won't open properly.

This morning I went outside to peg out the washing and feed the birds forgetting to move the doormat. When I returned the door wouldn't close and the mat was lodged tightly under the bottom of the door. I spent a happy half an hour wrestling with said doormat and sweating buckets before the bugger would loosen it's grip and come out from under the door.

I then spent another twenty minutes hoovering up the millions of loose fibres the damn thing had shed all over the kichen floor during the fight. Eventually I put the kettle on to make a coffee and relax in what little time I had left. Just as it boiled, the golfer returned, pinched my hot water to make his coffee, then asked if I was ready to go shopping as he wanted to pull in another nine holes after the supermarket, while I went to the gym. Is it any wonder I was a little p teed off?