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When I first moved in with my man i hadn’t lived away from ‘home’ before. There was something exciting about the idea of looking after my home and my man. Maybe it was because I felt like a grown- up, or was trying to prove that I was the best women to have at home. Whatever the reason I took to the role of little women with great relish.

This did not last very long.

I do not recall if it was days or weeks after the initial delight of living together, I do remember that we had not lived together that long though. I said to my beloved one evening, when we had got home from work, whether it was asking to much for him to put his dirty clothes in the wash-bin as opposed to all over the floor. His response was that he was making the chore ‘fun’ for me, making it ‘exciting’ for me while I was collecting the washing.

As you can imagine this went down with about as much cheer as a shot of chilli powder.

But instead of arguing, instead of calling him a pig, instead of throwing the washing basket at him. I simply smiled and carried on collecting the washing. But from that moment onward I stopped pairing his socks.

About a week later, when he was getting ready for work, he said to me ‘why don’t you pair the socks before you put them in here?’ You can imagine my answer ‘I’m just making it a bit fun for you, making your mornings a little more exciting….’

I’d love to say that was the end of it. That I had played him at his own game and won. That from that moment on he treated my like a Goddess.

But no it was not to be. He came home from work that evening a little later then usual, having made a detour to the shops. He had bought himself 12 pairs of identical black socks!

It became war, a strange smiling war.

Fast forward a few years with his clothes still discarded over the floor. He admits that he noticed a T-shirt had gone through the wash about 7 times yet he had not worn it!!! It would fall out of the piles of clothes he was putting away and he just didn’t bother picking it up. I would gather it up with other dirty clothes and through the wash it would go, again.

Well that he was a wake up call. I realised then that he would never change if I kept ‘enabling’ him to be a slob.

So I stopped ironing his clothes and only wash what was in the washing basket. I went so far as to pick up his pile of dirty clothes, hoover, then dump them back where he left them!

Clothes now get put in the wash- bin.

It may have taken a while but I won in the end.

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