COPING BADLY

Anne Robinson, I remember reading, told a journalist she had two dishwashers in her lovely home somewhere in the English countryside. At the time I thought this absurd, but today I find myself staring at the vertiginous piles of clothing and wishing that I had two washing machines.

I can’t decide which is worse – heaps of dirty washing or unsorted mountains of clean. Our bedroom looks like a jumble sale after a particularly busy Saturday. I must have some kind of psychological disorder that makes it impossible for me to put it all away. Even now I can hear it cackling and wolf-whistling to me from upstairs and I can’t face going up to look it in the eye.

The children’s various extra-curricular demands are mounting and it’s a race to get the rugby kit or swimming gear ready in time for it’s weekly outing. They wander in each morning and start digging about in the half-sorted piles, lamenting the lack of pants or socks in their drawers. I take their complaints personally: it is a testament to my lack of control in this department.

My father, who I must point out has never sorted a pile of washing in his life, commented recently on how untidy I am. This was shortly after his other observation – that I drive too fast. I was amazed he’d even noticed. In a paranoid moment of self-doubt, I imagine my parents discussing my shortcomings over breakfast. But maybe they’re not the only ones. My children’s teachers may regularly add my name to the mothers-who-don’t-polish-shoes list. Recently I was accosted by one of them on the subject of Bobby’s coat – or lack of it. The teacher drew my attention to the fact that the days were getting quite cold now, implying I didn’t care that he was shivering at break time. As if I hadn’t noticed the temperature or said to Bobby eighteen times that he needed his coat. So, it’s all about follow through then, this is what I lack. I am the queen of good intentions.

When I see Nigella teaching us how to be domestic goddesses, I think blow the Victoria sponges, how about the rest of it? Most probably she has a series of minions to aid her in this struggle. I did have help in the home once but she left for a filing job in a local office – or that is what she said; maybe she just couldn’t cope with what we threw at her, who knows?

In the school of thought that divides people in to list makers and doers, I am definitely in the former category. Piles dominate the house, be they made up of paper, fabric or china. So, if anyone knows where you learn to deal with this, I would be very grateful to know. Perhaps I should volunteer to have my house put in order by a TV programme, and while I’m about it Trinny and Susannah could come and laugh at my cellulite and the ancient clothes at the bottom of my wardrobe. Or better still, I could do my own series on how to live blissfully in chaos, feeding the family instant meals and reinvent the joy of not doing everything perfectly. It could be called REAL LIFE.

Life in the Slow Lane is written by Clare Kent. She has three children - Max is nearly eleven, Flo is nearly eight and Bobby is six and a half - and lives in Wiltshire.

NEXT INSTALMENT: WEDNESDAY 27 NOVEMBER