Wooohooo, a group of people who would be welcome in my house even if I hadn't spent 48 hours grafting to make it presentable!
Cobwebs reach a level that Miss Havisham would feel at home with before I feel the need to deal with them. Hoovering is something that happens at most twice in a week, and after an hour looks like I hadn't bothered (thanks, dog). The surfaces are cluttered, but beneath the clutter lies a generous layer of dust. My windows are filthy (I blame the rain - we seem to have unusually dirty rain here).
Sinks (kitchen and bathroom), toilet, bath are cleaned fairly regularly. I spray the bathroom tiles after a shower, while cleaning my teeth with the other hand. The hob is usually pretty clean, unless DP has cooked, in which case it looks like Jackson Pollock has been round. The worktops where we prep food get wiped daily, but the areas of worktop that just serve as a repository for clutter (post, odd things that I find on the floor and have no idea if they're important or not and general shite) get a cursory wipe every month or two if they're lucky. The last time I moved the sofa to hoover behind it, I found 3 bras, covered in dust and cobwebs, that had been removed for comfort and slipped down the back, where they'd been lying for maybe a year or more.
Our bedroom and the spare room are complete tips. Piles of clothes and books, hair products, skin stuff, pills, orthotic insoles and gawd knows what else clutter every surface.
The spare room is particularly dreadful, it looks like it's been ransacked by burglars. Following a serious attack of rummaging, the airing cupboard appears to have been a victim of disembowelling. I can't even shut the door without giving it a serious sorting out, and I can't sort it out because there's nowhere to put the contents while I do it.
I used to be tidy. I used to do the whole house on a Saturday morning, every week. I don't honestly know why it's no longer possible and suspect it's because I no longer live on my own. The house is simply too small to put everything away. DP's motorbike gear takes up an amount of space equivalent to a fair sized wardrobe. He never throws anything away: till receipts, scribbled notes and lists, even chocolate wrappers are just left lying around. His idea of tidying up the kitchen table is to scoop all the detritus into his arms and dump it in the spare room.
I sometimes watch the tv ads for fitted wardrobes and wonder if they're the solution, but then I realise that I'd still have to actually tidy up and I know that I'd rather read or surf the net. I just don't care enough to be bothered.
My late parents were hoarders. I'm starting to understand how it happens. If I outlive DP, they'll find my body, half-eaten by a hungry dog, under a pile of books, old Guardians. discarded clothes and dirty mugs.