Which sane person wants to spend their precious, scant and well-earned free time cleaning the bloody house? Not me. Well, at least not the old me.

In fact, I once had a toddler tantrum (aged 45) over the prospect of sacrificing another Saturday morning to the vacuuming. My meltdown was so massive that I somehow, hopefully not consciously, ended-up throwing the hoover down the stairs. And yet, at the risk of sounding like the over-privileged figure of ridicule in “Common People”, thanks to a recent sudden drop in income forcing me to say goodbye to my cleaner, I’ve had to reassess.

Now I find that dusting, hoovering and mopping can be incredibly satisfying. Therapeutic, actually. Perhaps even – whisper it – joyful.

One seemingly innocuous afternoon two months ago, an under-pressure c

See Full Page