It's only half past ten, and I've already bruised the back of my hand after the window shut unexpectedly on it, and shredded one knuckle changing hoover attachments. Housework is a dangerous business, and I'm not sure whether the answer is to do it less often, to minimise the damage, or more often and get better at it. I know which answer mum would give.
But there must be a balance between a house so clean that it's unwelcoming, and a festering pit. I've spent several years trying to find it without success, and having recently been diagnosed with asthma, I think I might need to move my bar a little towards the cleaner end of that scale. The less dust, the better I sleep, which has to be good (especially this week). So I've hoovered everything in sight, and incidentally disturbed several enormous spiders who were lying in wait to panic me once September arrives, the official season of mists, mellow fruitfulness, and gigantic hairy arachnids walking across the living room carpet in the evening. (This year I'm prepared - I have a plastic glass and postcard combo within reach of my knitting seat at all times.)
It's time for a cup of proper coffee and some more frantic knitting, because I have a totally ludicrous idea of what I can achieve in a week whilst still having a full time job. And I've been doing a lot of ripping lately, which I'd really rather not talk about. (Next time I am getting Chris to check that my buttonhole spacing calculations make sense. Or knitting a sensible pattern that works them out for me.)