A Domestic Goddess

Obviously, it was not what was originally envisaged. But, as you probably know, very few of these things are, especially not if that original envisaging is mostly instigated through the medium of advertising.

Once an old advertising slogan went along the lines of ‘it does what it says on the tin.’ Mostly though, things have a tendency not to, especially these days.

After all, most of us know that advertising doesn’t work and we know that we – in particular – are too wise to fall for its blandishments. We have seen it all, by now, and seen through all the consumer society has to offer. We know that most of it would not be out of place in a clothing catalogue for emperors, with most of us taking on the role of the small child who points out that catalogue has no pages.

And yet….

Well, sometimes she gets these… well, ideas.

Sometimes these ideas, back in the good old days before she realised exactly what kind of idiot she’d married, she used to dream of home improvements. But that dream faded somewhat after the shelf fell down on her head for the third time, ruining yet another bath and making the cat hide in the bathroom cupboard for a week.

It was not long after that, I made the mistake of admitting I liked cooking. Which, since the option was do either the cooking or the washing up, I would be a fool not to plump for the former over the latter.

Consequently, I ended up doing all the cooking, including peeling the potatoes. As well as peeling things like swedes that were never intended for peeling and which you are never really certain you are throwing the right bit away after it is peeled. Or, as in the case of the aforementioned swede, feeling it is better to throw away both the peel and what remains after the peeling, just to be on the safe side.

Still, I thought I had the best half of the deal, despite the number of batteries the smoke alarm tended to get through after a busy week of my cooking.

Still, I did the cooking and she did the washing up. Which was fair, I thought, until she bought the dishwasher and I was left peeling the potatoes and juggling the sprouts and she watched the telly.

Surprisingly, it has led to a life of domestic bliss, at least for the one evening of the week she visits her sister.

Although, when she does come back, she soon discovers something that is my fault so we can get back to normal and resume hostilities from where we left off.



Published by David Hadley

A Bloke. Occasionally points at ducks.

3 thoughts on “A Domestic Goddess

    1. Reminds me that our son when young thought Swede and potato was Swedish potato. I dunno sometimes these first-person fiction pieces seem less likable than third-person. Perhaps it is because it seems closer to non-fiction in some ways. Although in actual reality I do hate peeling swedes, so perhaps that bit is true.


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