While we were away, my mum – half-blind and pulling to the right – stayed at our house, primarily as a conduit to ensuring that there was not a dead cat to be dealt with upon our return.

And, hopefully, not a dead mother either. We spent all week waiting for a text each morning so that we at least knew she was okay first thing in the morning. Because it’s easy to conjure up a gazillion ways that your mother could die in a house she’s unfamiliar with, with stairs that she doesn’t normally contend with and a cat who is a trip hazard even to those with full eyesight.

But talking to her today, after our return home last night, I’m not sure we needed to worry about anything.

Basically, over the last week, as well as watching so many episodes of The Flash that she is “all Flashed out” and entirely confused by the whole thing, possibly spurred on by The Flash planting subliminal messages about cleaning products, she’s cleaned, hoovered and/or washed everything,


She’s stripped, washed and remade our bed, she’s washed the previous bedding we’d taken off earlier in the week. She’s hoovered everywhere. She’s hoovered the stairs – which, in a way, doesn’t even bear thinking about as she dragged the Dyson along with her. She’s cleaned the kitchen, washed the bathroom, including the mats.

She’s also done all the ironing.

Basically, we are now trying to come up with places to go every couple of weeks so we can get mum – half-blind and pulling to the right – to do all the housework for us.

We didn’t ask her to do it. We didn’t ecpect her to do it. There was us, 235 miles away, worried about boredom setting in and mum going slowly mad and, it turns out, she was as happy as could be with random bits of mainly unnecessary housework.

And all we had to pay her in was cat snuggles (that she secretly adored)  and some custard creams.