It’s a shameful thing to admit but I have never cleaned. I don’t mean just wiping down kitchen surfaces or making sure the lavatory is up to scratch, I mean cleaning a whole place from top to bottom. My mother was too house-proud to allow me to botch jobs in the name of learning, not for her a rota where the child played her part. As far as she was concerned, children did children’s things – and that didn’t include housework. At University, I found myself sharing a house with three male students, not one of whom was known to have lifted a cloth. I joined in enthusiastically with the household regime of leaving the dirt to bed in. As soon as I had a job, I paid another woman to do the work I hated. Of course, like most middle-class women, I felt guilty about this and, of course, like most, I rationalised that I was at least giving someone work she needed.

When we waved a sad goodbye to the lovely Margerita, our cleaner, the last remnant of our civilised existence before Lockdown, “The writer” and I looked at each other in the horrified realisation that at our advanced age, and with stiffening limbs, we had to take on the apartment.

We’ve had various different cleaners during the time we’ve lived here and I’ve always suggested that, if there’s a cleaning product they prefer to use, they should ask and I would get it. Thereafter, I haven’t taken much notice so the sight that greeted us when we explored the cleaning cupboard came as something of a shock:

The next shock was realising that one should always use tools oneself before giving them to other people to work with. Lugging our massively heavy cylinder vacuum upstairs nearly wrenched my shoulder from its socket. I had thought it was the best implement I could buy for the job but didn’t consider that Margerita is the same height as me and about the same weight. How could I have done that to her? I invested in a shiny new Dyson, decided to throw out the old vacuum, then worried that Margerita may have a comfortable relationship with it, and be so horrified not to find it when she returns, she would leave. The solution was to put it in the spare room ,which has gradually filled with things we can no longer be bothered to cram into cupboards, on the grounds that we are bound to be needing them again “soon”.

During the first week of lockdown, in an effort to become the perfect hausfrau, I carefully wiped all picture frames, standing on chairs where necessary, removed every item from every surface before dusting and disinfecting, and sprayed every mirror with noxious substances before rubbing at it hard enough to dissolve my reflection. But then salvation came in the form of an ostrich-feather duster, bought from an ostrich farm in Argentina where I actually saw my duster, or at least a relative, galloping across the Pampas. They’re big buggers, Ostriches, and quite fierce, and I’m not sure how he would have felt about the depths to which he has fallen, with his finery hanging from a stick. Anyway, the feather duster is now my implement of choice – I swipe the picture frames, dust surfaces without moving ornaments and promise myself, I’ll do it properly next time. I’m pretty sure all feather dusters do is move the dust around but I’ve dealt with any guilt by moving on to the next room before it has chance to settle again.

I dropped Margerita an email yesterday, ostensibly to ask how she was but, Oh, how I wished she could drop by.

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More notes from readers about their symbols of lockdown:

Sharon writes:

‘This is my best moment of lockdown life. The seeds I dried from a couple of tomatoes have sprung into life.  I’ll have to prick out a few and plant separately – when we have sunshine again. And I planted some slices which I think may be doing the same – I’m watching daily, could soon be overrun”.

“The writer” has decided to plant a cheese sandwich. As he says, you never know………

The line, the line!!

From my position watering the pots outside on the terrace, yesterday, I looked through the glass door into the kitchen to see “The Writer”, in his slippers, doing what appeared to be an energetic and complicated dance routine. From behind, I could see him swing his right arm, as though playing a forehand tennis stroke, while his left arm remained rigid, held up in the air and grasping what looked like a stick used in Morris Dancing. His head was bent floorwards, and, as I watched, he performed what I took to be a reverse Fleckeryll, after which, with dainty, cat-like steps, he glided sideways and began the sequence again, moving swiftly round the kitchen with each new flurry of steps. Though I strained my ears, I could hear no music but I could hear him repeating what I thought were the words,”Damn Line. Damn Line”.

Now, my husband would be the first to admit that he’s not a natural dancer. I love to dance but, after many years of marriage, I have grasped that conditions have to be exactly right before I can inveigle him onto the floor. He has to be drunk, there have to be at least thirty other people on the floor, preferably also drunk, the music has to be recognisable, i.e from the 60s, plus he has to be just sober enough to reminisce about “smooching” with girlfriends rendered willing partners by a glass of Babycham.

But here he was, dancing, alone, and, I assumed, sober, since it was 8:30 in the morning. Puzzled by this personality change, but loath to disturb it, I stepped into the kitchen and heard again the refrain, “Damn Line”, this time followed by a violent bout of swearing.

“What’s wrong?”, I asked.

“It’s this damn line, I can’t get rid of it”.

At this point, I realised that what his upright hand was holding, was not a Morris stick, but our long-handled dustpan and the wide forehand movements had been his sweeping of the brush towards the pan. However, nothing accounted fo the neat Scottish Dance steps.

His explanation was accompanied by more swearing and a demonstration of the fact that, however carefully he swept the floor, there remained, after he had swept the debris into the pan, a stubborn grey line of dirt he then had to chase across the kitchen, hoping that, by sneaking quickly up on it, as though on a fly he was going to bash with a newspaper, he would fool it, this time, into entering the pan, leaving not a trace behind.

I watched for a while, wondering whether there was any way I could harness this new enthusiasm in the service of our getting to dance more frequently.

Then I just got bored and hoovered up The Line.

I could swear he was disappointed.