Second Helpings

Chalk and Cheese

Yesterday I managed to drag myself from under the duvet quite early by my standards, for a shopping trip to Nottingham. On the train, my friend informed me she'd got up at the unearthly hour of seven, in order to complete some preparations for when she goes away on Friday.

'Like what?' I ask, thinking how little time it takes me to pack.

'Well, I needed to change all the beds and wash all the bedding for a start.' A niggle of guilt begins to creep into my head. I do such jobs when I remember and never even think about it before a holiday.

'Why?' I ask.

'Oh, I have to come back to a clean bed. It wouldn't be the same if I couldn't climb into freshly laundered sheets.' The niggle turns into a squirm. The last thing I think about as I jet off on vacation is the state of my beds at home. Hell, by the time we usually arrive back I'm ready to sleep on the washing line.

I know this particular friend is very domesticated and would probably admit her favourite occupations are housework and cooking. An alien concept to someone who hates cleaning and avoids any unneccesary domestic tasks whenever possible. But it still makes me feel inferior, sloppy and unfeminine. My guilt complex convinces me there's something wrong with me, because much as I like order and am a bit of a neat freak, keeping things immaculately clean is not one of my top priorities. Don't get me wrong, I don't live in squalour or surrounded by filth, but a bit of dust, a few germs and a sheet a little overdue for washing never bother me.

Later we eat at our favourite pub and my friend remarks she hasn't combed her hair all day, but has forgotten her comb. I tell her she can borrow mine if she's not fussy and doesn't mind catching a few nits. I scrabble for the comb that lives permenantly in the dark recesses of my handbag and hand it over. I notice it looks a bit worse for wear and isn't the most pristine of implements.

'Sorry,' I say. 'It looks a bit grubby. It rarely occurs to me to clean it, I'm such an idle devil.'

'Oh, I wash all my brushes and combs every week.' The guilt swallows me up again. I'm feeling like a hobo who should be out on the streets sleeping in a cardboard box. There's no animosity between us about our differences; we're chalk and cheese I guess, but still get along really well. It's just that her activities make me feel inadequate, whereas she has the confidence to know she could never tackle and has no interest in the things I enjoy, so doesn't give it a moment's thought.

Later she informs me she'll have a really busy day tomorrow.

'Why?' I ask, already anticipating the reply.

'Well, I have to clean all through, iron, wash down the doors and make sure all the washing is up to date. I ponder if she and my hubby would have violent battles over the household appliances if they resided together, as he's much more likely to perform these tasks than me. Even so, I don't think he'd ever think to wash an interior door.

On the train home I suggest she gives me a call while she's away. She gives me that look and I know I'm about to embark on my five hundredth personal lesson regarding phones. She's carried an antiquated mobile around for years and never had to top it up as she can never remember how to use it. I go through the whole process with her yet again, show her where to find the phonebook I set up for her and which button to press to call. After several failed attempts she threatens to stamp on the damned thing. Technology is a total mystery to her and she has no intention of ever catching up. But she's quite happy about it and doesn't feel envious of any skills I may possess. So why do I allow myself to feel so neglectful of my duties in the home just because she's a domestic goddess? In my friend, a case of being comfortable in her own shoes I guess. Mine always seem to cause cramp or create blisters of some sort.

My guilt led me to fill a sink full of hot, soapy water this morning and clean every comb, hair and make up brush in my possession. But I have to confess it did absolutely nothing for me; no buzz, no high, no smug feeling of satisfaction. Is it wrong or a sad symptom of modern society that a text message makes me smile, an e-mail often makes my day and tackling new territory on my iPad gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling?

It takes all sorts to make a world and that is how it should be I suspect. We'll be going away a week on Friday, but I know it will never occur to me to clean the house from top to bottom before we leave and it will only take me a few minutes to fling a few things in a case. And when I'm lying on a Greek beach in glorious sunshine I certainly won't be thinking about coming home to a pristine bed. But then again my friend won't need to pack her netbook, reading and writing materials, iPod, mobile phone or IPad.

I wonder if we're born with these differences in character and interests, or if life moulds us along the way? If it's the latter, next time I want a mould with the capacity to prevent me feeling guilty for my shortcomings, or simply being me.