I’ve never been much of a scrubber dear.
My faux leopard-print, maribou-trimmed Marigolds and feather duster rarely see the light of day.
So imagine my delight on reading that scientists believe that our obsession with cleaning can lead to depression. You don’t say.
It appears that constant cleaning eliminates all the bacteria and viruses and that is making our immune systems weaker and affecting our brains. Fancy that.
Now I know why I’ve got a tough immune system – more going out dancing, less staying in squeegy-mopping.
Years ago, The Cushion Plumper (my ma) used to call my untidy flat The Swamp.
I thought that was a little unfair. Creative Bohemia was more apt.
I’m sure I read yet another report that stated we humans eat a pint of dirt (unbeknowingly) before we die.
When I was little I very naughtily called someone a ‘cow’. My RC fire and brimstone old gran said she’d wash my mouth out with soap.
Well, with what comes out of the potty-mouthed schoolgirls today, you’d need a crate of carbolic dear.
I was watching a TV debate where they were discussing how schoolgirls are getting as aggressive and disruptive as the boys.
In a newspaper article the same day, they listed school children aged 11-14 that verbally abused and even physically assaulted their teachers. In all cases, the violent pupil was eventually let back into class.
We need strong government intervention or these feral children will become the domestic violence abusers or even murderers of the future.
On to other news and I had been waiting for April 18, 2011, for a while.
On Monday I was 60 and now I am officially an OAP.
It’s every Brit babe’s birthright, once they have become a golden oldie, to be an even more curmudgeonly battleaxe than they were before.
Power to the pensioners, I say.
Wrinklies’ revenge is the right to rant.