My wife is obsessed with cleaning. Hoover here, scrub there, wash the garden path, shampoo the cat. The other day she had her head in the washing machine. ‘What are you doing?’ I said.
‘Washing it,’ she said ‘your filthy clothes have been in here’
Last week she complained the flower beds looked dirty! ‘They are made of dirt’ I said.
‘No,’ she said. ’They are filled with soil’.
‘Okay,’ I said ‘so they are soiled’. She gave me a filthy look!
I swore the other day. You should have seen her face! ‘Wash your mouth out with soap she yelled’. She says even my laugh is dirty. ‘Wipe that filthy grin off your face’ she says.
You should have heard her last night. ‘Wash your grimy hands, take off those mucky clothes, get your muddy shoes off the carpet, take a shower’. I said I’d prefer a bath. ‘You’d rather sit in a tub full of your own dirty water?’ she shouted. See what I have to put up with?
If I outlive her one song simply has to be played at her funeral. Mud, mud, glorious mud!
Wallow in it with me, do!
Word count 185
Thanks to Susan for hosting Sunday Photo Fiction and Fandango for the picture