Shooting a Breeze with the Daffodils

As spring approaches there are daffodils and wedding invitations on the mantlepiece..

As Dearest and I did not live together before marriage, there were a number of issues which had remained blissfully unapparent until we'd shared a roof together, for a week.

My advice to anyone embarking on matrimony is to do a "Tidiness-tolerance" check list before you sign that register.
I think that this is a base-line for compatibility, quite frankly.

I have one brother  and all the tidy genes went one way. Mostly up his rectum. I am trying to be polite here. But even he, were he ever to eat quiche and read blogs, would be the first to agree.
Many years ago, he got into my car and saw the newspaper on the floor which had virtually shredded because it had been there so long, and asked me if I was now keeping pigeons?
If he visits and comments on how well organised everything is looking (a pre-arranged visit means I can do a deep de-clutter prior to arrival) I glow with the pathetic gratitude of a labrador that has just been patted on the head.
Then he'll say, "Ah, but I bet it's all piled high at the top of the stairs..."
And then that docile labrador just wants to take a deep chunk out of his ankle because, dammit, he's right.

When the children were little, I would often keep the Hoover out so that if anyone called on the hop, I would give the impression that they had just interrupted some incipient but transformative housekeeping chore.
So from this you will gather that if I were still subject to a school Report Card, it would read,"Does her best but could try harder".

Thankfully, I married a man who bears no resemblance to my brother whatsoever.
Dearest is as bad as I am but, I have to confess, edges ahead, in that he never sees anything that is not in its rightful place. He is not  troubled by the need to take things upstairs, or by the grey blanket of newspapers after  he has read them spread-eagled across the living room floor, or the re-cycling that he has to circumnavigate in the porch, as he staggers in with a pile of files.
And dear readers, I have spoilt him. It is all my fault.
And I will continue to spoil him until he stops working like a ding-bat while I swan around shifting the box of wine that arrived and carrying upstairs a weekend of discarded clothing (aha! got your attention now? Yes, it's the Dance of the Seven Veils twice nightly here, with matinees on a Sunday in this house.
Put this definitely on the list of marital pre-requisites.)

Now that I have found my feet, so to speak, I feel a fervent desire to tackle the pile at the top of the stairs.
I am sure after a cup of tea, the feeling will pass.