heat and dust
I won’t let my husband make the bed, because he doesn’t know how to do hospital corners, or why it’s important to lift the mattress at the head before slipping the sheet under to ensure a tight, smooth expanse of linen. His mother must never have got him to help her make beds (either that, or her technique is sadly lacking), an omission I had resolved to put right, in the fullness of time, with my own four-year-old son.
Until, that is, a further thought struck me. What would it be like to date a man who was scrupulous about hospital corners? A man who wiped his finger along the top of the
mantelpiece to check for dust, felt that it was not just possible, but actually desirable, to wash radiators, and who would be affronted at the idea of occupying bathwater used by a loved one? A living nightmare, that’s what. Perhaps hospital corners won’t make it on to the curriculum after all. Living with a masculine slut can be a trial, but a clean freak would be considerably worse.
SHE’S GOTTA HAVE IT
SHE’S GOTTA HAVE IT
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