It’s not just the garden that has us doing a pre spring cleanup.

There’s something about late autumn that seems to kick start the urge to have things neat and tidy before the chills of winter, send us to hibernate in front of the fire so we rush around cutting limbs off trees, raking up leaves, deciding where to plant spring flowers.

But with that done, we move inside, find the winter doonas, check the flues in the fires are clean, and then – worst of all – decide to tidy the house.

It’s often done while the man of the house is out, because as fast as you throw out his old shirts he brings them back in, but I have drawn the line at him helping with the annual cleanout of the kitchen cupboards.

How is it that stuff manages to hide itself in the very depths of the shelves.

Stuff we never remember buying – or when we see a jar that’s been opened and one spoonful taken out and replaced wonder why we didn’t throw it out when we had obviously found it tasted disgusting…

So – here’s the truth and none of you dare deny you have a cupboard like it.

My Ode to the Perfect Housewife

Of all the dreadful household jobs a woman has to tend
Cleaning out the kitchen cupboards has to be then end
Beneath my spotless benchtops when the door is shut up tight
My dreadful secrets lie like sin in blackness dark as night
So – full of grit and firm resolve, and armed with pan and brush
I pull the door and cans and bottles fall out in a rush
An empty can of varnish and a tin of ham by Hutton,
An unused can of Mr Sheen that’s lost its little button
So that’s where young son hid his gun and wrecked the house to find it
I pick it up and scream aloud, a mouse is there behind it
An onion neatly sprouting – I wondered where that went
Some petrified potatoes and a half-filled vial of scent
I hurl it all into a bag and make a resolution
I swear it won’t happen again, this kitchen shelf pollution

My garden is so neat you see with all the plants in line,
the rhododendron bursts with health, the roses bloom just fine
My washing line just sparkles, like the ones seen on TV
My kitchen floor’s so shiny you could fall and crack your knee
The kids are squeaky clean that’s true but unlike Mother Hubbard
Some dreadful sights await the soul who dares to front my cupboard.

Beside the squashed egg carton that’s enough to make you sick
You’ll find some soap, a jelly pack and a half-filled jar of Vick
A small teapot without a lid, a pile of Visa bills,
Fifteen tubes of horse wormer and an unknown brand of pills
Yuck! What was in the bottle? The label says sour cream
But any fool knows cream is white, and the stuff in here is GREEN!
I spilled that rice an age ago, (what year I can’t decide)
But in it tribes of little bugs have lived… and loved… and died.
What’s in this box?? I can’t recall (old labels fade with time)
It’s fuzzy, grey and smells quite bad and is  price-marked 2/9

When this as all other things must pass and the shelves shine just like new
I sit myself upon the floor and survey the perfect view
Upon the shining surface is only what should be there
I’m smug, though dust and bits of rust still dot my face and hair
I close the door triumphant! With a smile just like an elf
The Perfect Housewife? Course I am! Just see my kitchen shelf!

But, lo… a shadow o’er my joy, a thought that brings me pain,
I know that when I close that door, it will all begin again.