The secret way I escape my mundane middle-class, middle-aged existence

This is going to sound crazy but I actually love house-cleaning. For some reason it sends me into a relaxing state of euphoric bliss – maybe it’s the repetitive focus on tiny details, maybe it’s the Windex fumes in a poorly ventilated home. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because I like to clean creatively.

I escape my mundane middle-class middle-aged existence by pretending to be different characters – a bit like kinky role-playing but with a bucket, a sponge and an old toothbrush for getting into tricky corners. Actually its probably exactly the same.

Anyone can do it, it’s lots of fun. When I’m sweeping the leaves in the driveway, I imagine I’m a Buddhist monk in a remote mountain monastery in Bhutan, sweeping ancient stone pathways with my rattan broom, clearing the spiritual detritus from my consciousness until I enter a Purifying Temple of Glorious Healing Colours where The Enlightened Self Dwells. 

Then I sweep all the leaves into a big pile on the footpath and leave it there for someone else to clear up because I’m bored with this character, it’s very limited.

When I’m cleaning the bathroom, I plunge into a Downton Abbey scenario and become a fresh-faced, comely chambermaid – a real scrubber. I clean the sink, the toilet, the shower-screen, sometimes dropping my squeegee and bending down to pick it up, holding my alluring pose for a few moments in case my master is peeking through the keyhole.   

Of course I don’t dress up in a chambermaid outfit or anything – that would be ridiculous. I mean, I’m working with harsh bathroom cleansers: my petticoat and apron would be completely ruined.

Watering the garden, I transform into a Vegas club-act. I pretend the hose-nozzle is a microphone, then I water the plants in a snazzy Sinatra-ish way without squirting myself in the face: “Fly me toooo the moon” (squirt squirt)… “and let me plaaaaaaay amongst the stars” (shoooba doooba doo, squirt). 

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I sing all the great gardening numbers. “Green Green Grass of Home” while watering my brown, brown lawn of mud. “Lemon Tree” while watering the misshapen lemon tree with the gall-wasp lumps. And a haunting “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers” while I water the empty plastic pot where a geranium once grew.

Vacuuming is my favourite. Vacuum cleaners have an engine and little wheels so it’s like being allowed to drive in the house. 

I pretend I’m on the starting grid for a Formula 1 grand prix. Rev up to maximum suction, three, two, one, go! Take the first turn on the couch chicane. Down the right-hand side, around the dining room table. Damn, chicken-bone caught in my air-intake valve! Pull into kitchen pit-stop. Remove debris in five seconds, CLEAR!

Complete 36 laps of the house, rack up my third career victory, stand on the coffee table and spray champagne all over the place. 

Then I go get a mop and mop it up. With great gusto, like I’m on the Swedish curling team at the Winter Olympics, in the gold-medal play-off.