I'm cleaning. Which is why I'm blogging obviously.
We have visitors this coming weekend; and we had visitors the weekend before last. This means that the house will have been cleaned twice in two weeks. This might be less-than-normal for you but, for me, it's extra-ordinary. I might even say unheard-of.
We don't have visitors to stay very often - we're not awfully sociable - but when I was little, living in Mumbles, our home became a guesthouse over the summer for family that we never saw the rest of the year. The Cousins From Crewe were regulars. They consisted of one man and two women, one of whom was called Flossie - and she was. With curly white hair, little round glasses and a body to match, she would clutch me to her, and talk with a funny accent.
That's all I can remember about them except that they gave me half a crown when they left. And took me out and bought me ice creams. And what more could an eight-year-old want?
But the best thing about summer visitors was that I had to give up my bed. In its place I slept on a put-me-up with a feather mattress; it was like a cloud of dreams that I could sink into. Safe and snuggly, soft and cuddly.
And very bad for the back I have no doubt.
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