Early yesterday evening, after my massive day of sloth, in bed, I did a little housework.
You know, just some light duties. Tidied my bedroom, straightened up the studio, stuffed some bog cleaner down the, erm, bog.
Then I took the recycling out, tidied the kitchen and flicked Henry II around the lounge.
And somehow, during the Henry II action…
I broke myself.
I don’t know what happened, or how it happened, but at some stage during the vacuuming, my back gave me a painful spasm and then I couldn’t move easily and painlessly any more.
I took painkillers, went to bed and slept fitfully.
This morning I resemble a geriatric, as I totter and teeter around the house, trying to find more painkillers.
The only things I’m sure of, are:
- Housework is bad for you
- I don’t have any more painkillers in the house
- That means I have to stagger out to get some
- This means I have to shower, shave, dress
- This might take some time
- My weekend plans look scotched
Oh arse.
But really?
This happened doing the vacuuming?
Well you won’t catch me doing *that* again!
In my experience of these matters, you will have done something somewhat strenuous previously to the pain occurring and the vacuuming was just the final trigger.
What is this thing called housework?
Seriously — I get a man in. Life’s to short to hoover.
That’ll teach you to do women’s work!
Further proof, as if it were needed, that housework is not only dull, it’s also bad for you. I shall cite your case as my reasoning for living like some sort of dettol-resistant student.