With a face like...

a smacked arse himself has been helping me today.

The reason for the most reasonable of men to be crabby is... I have taken a Pickford’s pill and have the strong desire to move.  Only furniture, mind!

Now if there’s one thing in my experience men don’t tend to like it’s a rearrangement of their world.

Now it is a well known fact I am not known for my skills as queen of clean.  I sit and try not to notice the vesuvian layers of dust  as they slowly grow ever higher. My idleness grows in direct proportion.  I notice the right hand curtains are just a few cms longer than the left, just a matter of hopping up and moving the hooks a tad.  Do I do it? 

Oh dear No!  The dog hair blows through like tumbleweed down the  high street of Deadwood after the gold rush has gone. 

Well until today!  I climbed out of bed with purpose.  What shall I do for badness today?  I know, a little light rearrangement of furniture sounds like a cunning plan!  Now himself knows only too well that this involves him far more than me!  I am the chief he is the Indian.  I am the ideas, he is a bloke who likes a quiet ordered life without change or disruption... come to think of it what feller doesn’t?  So off we go, his scowl could polish pots far better than Brillo.  With every fibre I try not to notice,  maintaining a bright upbeat... 

we can do this sort of persona.

We sit in the Orangery which looks so much bigger waiting for our newly order kilim made from... wait for it... recycled bottles.  He still has a air of glum and I am glowing with gleam of having been given a good seeing 

 to by Mr Muscle.  I am happy!  Give it a day or two and he will be saying how much better the room looks.