Clutter

The realtor told me I'd have to de-clutter my house to show it.
'Oh, that's no problem,' I said (blithely) 'I don't have any clutter in my house, I am the queen of weeding, clutter-free, that's me.'
Ok, well I wasn't quite as annoying as that but, at any rate, I denied that any clutter could be found in my home.

Then I got home and looked around. And of course there is clutter. Not the type of crap that people who go on TV shows have, the ones who can't clean or understand why their house won't sell even though they have a stuffed rhinoceros standing in the middle of the living room, but things that are 'in progress'. Papers on the coffee table, something waiting to be sewn up, a couple of jumpers on my bedroom chair that I only wore for half an hour and that I can wear a bit more before they go in the wash, books waiting to be read, and right now, my seedlings. They're going to work with me, they'll sit in my office, so in my head they're not really there.
Except they are.

And then there's clean.
I went round the potential new house with critical eye and finger. The house is empty, so I'm justified in judging. Good grief, how can they leave a house without cleaning it?
And yet back here, it's mid-week. I don't clean mid-week. I wash up of course, I wipe the counters, but I don't hoover or sweep the stairs. I don't Mr. Sheen anything. I don't attend to the glass table tops.

But I have polished the door. I've been washing it and yes, that gets it clean, but it has been looking worse and worse. Now it has been furniture polished and it looks great. If only I'd known before.
D'oh.