I am a sloth.
If anyone is determined to be kind, they could say that I haven’t always been a sloth, and certainly there was a long period of my life when I gave every appearance of diligent industry.
It was all a facade.
I married a man who whistled tunelessly as he ran a finger through dust on the mantelpiece, and the arrival of children unearthed a certain pride in the state of their school shoes, and a reluctance to launch them into the world with the belief that slothful was good. Employers are not impressed by sloth – a fact that extended my diligent phase far beyond its use-by date.
But those days are long gone, and I have slipped seamlessly back into slothdom with the happy sigh of one who’s at last come home.
Some weeks ago, it was borne in upon me that my shower was leaking. To anyone less bone idle, pennies would have been dropping so fast for so long I’d be a millionaire by now: big blisters in the plaster of room next door are hardly subtle hints. And I did notice them. I did. But addition was never my strong point, and why bother with two and two if no one’s marking you on the answer? Fortunately – or unfortunately – my visiting daughter is a whizz at domestic maths, and once she’d pointed it out, blissful ignorance was no longer an option.
This is the result.
I probably could have coped had that been all. Certainly, I’m sick of having a bath instead of a shower, particularly when baths include seeping grit invisible to the naked eye but all too apparent when sat upon. I could even have coped with the dummy-spits of a cistern unused to plaster dust in its innards.
But when it comes to this…
…even a sloth will rise up. Not willingly. Not with the joyful cries of housewifely fervour.
But even slothdom has its limits.
I wonder if it’s karma…