I ask: house-cleaning attacks? I have mixed feelings for this obvious necessity.

The bit I have disliked to the extent of loathing and since I was at school, was helping out to our house-cleaning. I was nine or ten, and my mother insisted that once a week it was the ‘furniture-dusting-time’ for me. It was supposed to be my contribution to the work she put daily to keep our home in a pristine and fresh condition; so I thought; but, having overheard her once, conversing with her sister about the ‘virtues’ of such labor, I could not comprehend how these would contribute to the correctness of my behavior, – a subject often brought up when I was caught doing mischief. ‘Hygienic habits, self-discipline and filial-duty-consciousness were just words to me, and couldn’t see the connection with the cleaning.

I didn’t mind helping in the peeling the skin of the potatoes and oranges. I also liked shelling peas or destone cherries using the special gadget for it, – and assuring some of the cherries were ended promptly into my mouth: oh, the satisfaction to have them travelling swiftly down into my belly.

Still, every Saturday, and after having finished my school homework, I had to assist her in the cleaning, and without protestation. And, while I was sweating, my two sisters were engaged to play with their dolls; ‘they were far too young to hold a knife or help with the chores’, our mother would say. Yet, they were aware of their lucky exemption: when mom was not looking, they would both stick their tongues out and made monkey faces at me while I busily hurried to finish up; and, sometimes they would laugh stretching their arms to point at the table’s legs, and sing: ‘dusting sis, oh, oh, see poo there, mice poo, stuck into the legs’ nails!…, poof, it stinks …’, and ha, ha, ha. One was four and the other six, the youngest always the one to copycatting.

Well, I particular disliked the kind of old furniture we had at the time: big and heavy, of brown-oak, with miniature relief decorations on all vertical sides, you could think they’d rather fit perfect in a spacious Hall, or preferably in a castle drawing room. In our dining room, just the buffet and the table filled up with their gracious bulk almost all free space. I still see that huge dining table: its side-paneling of wild boars wrapped its perimeter like an uneven bandage, and the thick, carved legs imitated the paws of a lion fairly accurately. I could sit on the floor, for what it seemed ages, lips tied, hands busy, determined to remove all the grey dirt that had been accumulated between the finger-sized claws of the animal, and as fast as I could.

Later in my life, and in my own house, I used to tide and clean only prior to an invited gathering! It would occur as often as twice a week, so it kept my place smelling spring-cleaned, or whatever aroma the cleaning agent gave away, which my friends were noticing favorably and I smiled with obvious pride.

This does not mean I have turned out to like the actual work. Far from it; but, I have discovered that music and the power of mind came willingly into my assistance to remove any complains I would otherwise suffer with. It also has helped to keep my figure trim, an antidote to the physical inactivity we experience sitting in an office all day long. In fact, when using the hoover, or climbing on a ladder to dust the high shelves of my bookcase, and/or mopping the floor to a gloss, singing and dancing all along has become a pleasurable ritual. A healthy way to do house work, yes: ‘kill two birds with one stone’ as we say in Greece (and perhaps in other countries). I’d recommend the habit always, because of its multiple virtues.