Patsy Crawford – Still scribbling

It was the birds chirping at dawn that made me ponder the question; do people still do spring cleaning. 

I very much doubt it. Spring cleaning has pretty well had its day, much like polishing cutlery, knitting socks and making beef paste. But after pushing and shoving my way through the rubbish tip that now masquerades as our back verandah I think the time has come to bring it back. And anyway if I don’t do something soon, potatoes will start to grow in the accumulated dirt behind the bar fridge.

Well I call it a bar fridge. Actually it’s a bashed up old Kelvinator my sister was chucking out that we carted to our place on the flat tray. After giving it a once-over with the scrubbing brush and sticking a pot plant on top to hide the dents and rust marks it has made quite an acceptable little fridge to house dog bones, last season’s peaches, ice cubes made round about January and suspicious food items of an indeterminate age. 

The slatternly approach to home maintenance has been coming on ever since the cold weather kept us marooned in the sitting room as close to the heater as humanly possible. This winter found us teetering around the house dressed in multiple layers of clothing looking for all the world like whimsical characters out of a Dickens novel. We stayed in our slippers longer than necessary. We seemed to be always boiling soup. Going to the mailbox required throwing anoraks and fleecy-lined beanies over thermal tops and saggy track-pants. To be frank, we let ourselves go. 

In line with this abandonment of personal grooming, the house was left to its own devices. The significant drop in temperature between rooms and close to the back door meant all attempts to hold the advance of grubbiness and disorder in check was abandoned once the warmth of the sitting room was left behind. Items destined to be thrown in bins and sheds only got as far as the back deck, following the shouting of ‘I’ll just leave it here until the weather gets better.’

However as the weather didn’t cooperate things started to pile up. First they were crammed on the table, then they got turfed onto various chairs and finally anywhere I could find a space. When it got too disgusting I cunningly covered several grime-laden chairs with a floral bedspread. 

The pot plants withered in the cold. Their stark bare stalks stuck triffid-like out of cheap containers. Those that didn’t die grew erratic side-whiskers. The bird bath fared better. Rain kept it topped up. Returning birds hopped in and splashed water everywhere. 

All up though, our deck has become a desolate place. The fridge soldiers noisily on, chairs creak and crack with inattention, a rather nice Coogans kitchen cabinet stands in a corner defying grunge hurled towards it. Spud’s food bowl is a disgrace. 

So spring cleaning will be revived at our place. Otherwise no-one will ever sit on that verandah again. Comes the sun, comes the duster.