Domestic bliss.

One of the best - and worst - things about being at home for large tracts of the day is that I keep noticing things around the house that need to be done.

This is good because there's a chance the gaff will start to feel a bit more like home. We've now been living here for over three years but have yet to hang a picture. People who don't know us ask us how we're settling in when they visit, assuming that we've just unpacked.

It's bad because every time I turn around I see something else to put on the ever-lengthening to do list. And decorating is something that Himself and myself do not see eye to eye on, so it's leading to rows.

While I don't particularly enjoy painting - ooooh yay, can I do the cutting in?!?! - it's not like it's difficult. Same goes for sweeping and hoovering and making the bed and loading and unloading the washing machine - Himself doesn't see this as a two-step job and prefers to leave damp clothes to moulder and stink in the drum - and drying clothes and putting them in the hot press or ironing them or folding them and putting them away.

Himself would like to get in a housekeeper in for these things. And get someone in to do the painting/decorating.

There are two of us, and a dog. In a two-bedroom fun-size house.

It sounds stupidly extravagant, I think. And smacks of being the lazy way out. However, I am told, it would free us up to do other things. Fun things.

Like what?

Spending entire weekends watching Malcolm in the Middle marathons on Sky1?