I can hear my husband at it now: the clattering, whooshing, sweeping noises that tell me not to disturb him. He is in the zone: the Deep Clean zone.
I am married to a man whose favourite smell is Dettol; who can spot a smudged skirting board at ten paces; who gets that Henry nozzle in places you wouldn’t believe.
The other day I saw him giddy with excitement as he opened an Amazon package containing a large rotating brush thingy with which to clean the gap around the draining board.
On this, his day off work, he is putting to rights the tsunami of destruction caused by our four young children. Popping into the kitchen for a coffee, I see him scrubbing away at a nubbin of hardened porridge on the counter. The Quaker Oats don’t stand a chance.
According to a recent academic paper, the sight of my husband doing this should be a potent aphrodisiac. The Journal Of Sex Research – a serious publication, no tittering at the back – analysed two studies involving nearly 500 cohabiting heterosexual couples, looking for links between household chores and sexual desire.
While some of its findings are not wildly surprising (women do more domestic labour than men), the general gist of it did get me raising all available eyebrows: men doing chores around the house boosts female desire. Yes, the new Diet Coke break hunk is not the construction worker of yesteryear but a dishwasher-stacking, grout- scrubbing chap with a feather duster. Phwoar!
This is all very enlightened and feminist-friendly, but men of Britain: before you don your Marigolds in the hope of becoming more alluring, you must know that this has the opposite effect on some women. Like me.
Men of Britain, warns Clare Foges, before you don your Marigolds in the hope of becoming more alluring, you must know that this has the opposite effect on some women
I am married to a man whose favourite smell is Dettol; who can spot a smudged skirting board at ten paces; who gets that Henry nozzle in places you wouldn’t believe
While I am of course grateful that my husband cleans the house, it is hardly a turn-on. Quite the opposite, in fact – because seeing him cleaning is a reminder of the thing we clash most on: our contrasting approaches to housework.
Though married to a clean freak, I am a five-star slob, Pied Piper of a trail of worn clothes, old newspapers and be-crumbed plates. I’m the kind of gal who will sooner make an argument about dust mites being important to the ecosystem than pick up a duster.
I spy an empty coffee mug in my office which has been there since Keir Starmer had a fighting chance of staying in No10.
Given that housework is the No1 sticking point in our marriage, it’s no turn-on when he’s hard at it.
Seeing him on his hands and knees polishing the kitchen floor does not make me burn with desire since I know that he himself is probably burning – with resentment.
Besides – though it feels taboo to suggest in this day and age – getting a feather duster up into those hard-to-reach corners is not exactly manly, is it?
Yes, I believe in equal rights and sharing the load between partners. No, I do not want to go back to the days when most women were unpaid and unthanked skivvies. But I am a heterosexual woman: I find it attractive when my husband does masculine things. Things which involve muscle and toil, strength and stamina.
The other day I was remarking to him that we needed to get a tree surgeon to remove the dead ceanothus tree from our back garden, a brute of a thing at three metres tall. The next thing I knew, my husband was felling the beast with his bare hands, snapping branches as thick as jam jars like twiglets. It was as though I had leafed through the Yellow Pages for the services of the Incredible Hulk – and frankly it was very attractive.
I fancy my husband mid-chore when he’s doing things I can’t do – drilling, fixing, stuff with rawlplugs. Above all, heavy lifting: the vast rockery stones he moved across the garden, the super-king mattress he hoofed up two flights of stairs on his own, me watching on in admiration.
Perhaps it is the cavewoman genes in me, desiring a man who can carry a slain antelope across miles of savannah.
Whatever the reason, my husband is exceedingly strong and I like to witness it in action – not watch him mop the floor.
According to the paper, this all comes back to the beliefs we hold about relationships. Women who expect completely egalitarian partnerships are turned on by a man who does his fair share of chores – and experience a proper dip in desire when he doesn’t pull his weight.
Those with more traditional beliefs like me – who tend to think of men as protectors and women as carers – are not so turned on by helpful partners and less fussed when their husband skips a few chores.
As for male desire, one of the more curious findings was that cleaning more actually boosted their passion. Not so curiously, both men and women found childcare to be the ultimate libido dampener, a change authors explained by the ‘intensive and often exhausting nature of the work’. Yep, you can say that again.
The bottom line for both sexes: be considerate; don’t be lazy; give each other a break where possible. And – if expenses allow – hire a cleaner.
Zoe’s right, job rejection hurts
Zoe Ball reveals that failing to land the Strictly Come Dancing presenter gig has left her ‘working through the seven stages of grief and rejection’.
While it’s easy to knock her – no one has died, after all – I admire the honesty. Being turned down for a job you craved can be painful. It’s worse than romantic rejection. At least when you ask someone out you don’t have six rounds of interviews first.
Can Larry take yet another boss?
Working in No10 many years ago I developed a fondness for resident mouser Larry the Cat.
Late at night, as I beavered away at my computer, he would sit warming himself on the printer, purring as if to say: ‘What are you still doing here, loser?’ While the speculation about Keir Starmer’s leadership continues, I am concerned about his wellbeing.
Never mind how the financial markets react, what about Larry? He’s a ripe old 19 now. Six owners in a decade is de-stabilising for an old puss.
A middle-aged obsession with gardening has crept up on me like clematis up a trellis. One minute I find garden centres the most boring places on Earth, the next I’m Googling ‘Monty Don Live’. An addiction to gardens is the English disease; we all catch it sooner or later.
Why I’d far rather travel by myself
There’s a huge rise in women travelling abroad alone – up 91 per cent in a decade. Before I had children I loved taking off solo… just me, a backpack, and a packet of emergency Ginger Nuts. There were hairy moments (a creepy Parisian taxi driver), but there’s nothing like being in a foreign land with only your own schedule to follow.
