‘Oh my god, will you look at this?’ I yell at the Mister who is in the kitchen. ‘Filth! Absolute filth!’ I holler until I realise he is wired for sound and ignoring me.

He’s got new hearing aids and now has his podcasts pumped straight into his brain. This is a cunning ploy to pretend he is never ignoring me, just listening to weird shite about the men’s football or frying pans. (I kid you not, the man has been watching YouTube videos about pans!!!)

‘Oi!’ I was going for a friendly nudge, but not hearing me coming, he turns around, and we nearly batter each other in fright.

‘Arse,’ I stagger, always the lady, ‘come and look at this.’

Coming into the living room, we both stand, hands on hips and shake our heads. The dog, used to this routine, turns and heads for the hills.

What is it we are staring at?

More horror on the news?

Another war/riot/heatwave?

None of those. Though obviously they are all terrible and no joking matter.  I am in no way making light of the bin fire that is the world literally burning.

No! This is much worse.

I am talking about the amount of dog hair I have just swept up.

I sweep the floor every day. Especially now we’ve taken up the rugs for the summer. We’ve lino all downstairs, the best thing we ever did, what with ancient incontinent dogs (and menopausal women). Easy to clean, it is much neglected and often a bit grubby. But it does get a sweep most days and, Jeezzo, will you look at the state of this.

Every day, there is a pile of dog hair, comparable in size to a small Westie.

Every single day.

Without fail.

Sometimes I’m sweeping in the morning and at night, and there is still fucking dog hair everywhere.

The sofas are covered in throws that, with a quick wipe, reveal that they’re actually green and purple, not the grey matted fur that Bertie leaves in his wake.

And it’s not that I don’t brush him.

I say I don’t brush him because the mister’s dog-grooming routine is religious – by which I mean it’s once a year when he suddenly realises it’s Christmas and has forgotten to buy any gifts.

Every time I groom him, it’s the same (the dog, not the Mister, that would be another blog altogether). Literal bin bags of hair clog up the comb. There aren’t enough treats in the world to keep him still to do anymore.

You’d think he’d be bald, with all the fur that comes out.

But no!

Five minutes later, jumping down from the sofa, he leaves a mat of hair that will stick to my trousers for decades.  He gives a quick shake, and the floor is a flurry of dust balls all over again.

A question.

And I don’t mean to get personal, but, well, you’re here now.

Do you feel the need to show people the filth you have cleaned up in your house?

That’s not weird, is it?

I’d phoned my daughter, but she’s been screening my calls, still going on about ‘farming her for content for the blog.’

In the past, I’ve phoned the Mister, but apparently he hasn’t yet wired his hearing aid to receive calls and didn’t hear his phone.’

There’s no point calling the sons; they don’t even pretend to be interested.

And it’s not like I’m not busy. I’ve books to write and jelly babies to decapitate in specific order of colour.

But still, have you seen the state of this?

Don’t leave me hanging, send me pictures of your filth. (Now, now, let’s not be having any of that, thank you!)

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