Domestic Daemon

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Author: Domestic Daemon

  • Suffer for Your Art

    In which the neighbours discover their creative potential, and I discover the limits of my patience

    We have new neighbours, two floors above us.

    I am sure they are perfectly lovely people. Kind, considerate, generous to charity and undoubtedly possessed of the very best intentions.

    Unfortunately, they appear to be pursuing careers in the performing arts.

    Their chosen medium is the electric drill.

    They have been practising all day, with a dedication that would put the Royal Academy of Music to shame. I cannot begin to imagine what they are creating, but judging by the noise, it must be something truly monumental.

    At one point, I became convinced they were attempting to drill their way through the building and emerge directly into my bedroom.

    Perhaps it is an installation.

    Perhaps they are making a statement about modern urban living.

    Perhaps they are simply trying to hang a picture.

    If so, I can only assume it is the size of the Sistine Chapel ceiling.

    What, I ask, is wrong with being a mime?

    Mimes may be peculiar creatures, with questionable dress sense and a regrettable fondness for pretending to be trapped inside invisible boxes, but at least they are quiet.

    Blessedly, gloriously quiet.

    A quality sadly lacking in our building.

    I have therefore decided that the next time we move, I shall select our home entirely on the basis of its neighbours.

    No drill artists.

    No elderly people who listen to the television at a volume normally associated with airport runways.

    No families with children.

    And absolutely no gardening enthusiasts.

    Gardeners are the worst.

    They are forever peering over the fence, offering unsolicited advice about pruning this hedge, cutting back that shrub or generally interfering with one’s carefully cultivated wilderness.

    I prefer my garden in the style of an English landscape park: romantic, natural and entirely untroubled by excessive maintenance.

    Other people insist on calling it overgrown.

    Philistines.

    On reflection, perhaps what I really need is a detached house in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by several acres of land and absolutely no neighbours.

    Although knowing my luck, the nearest farmer would probably take up chainsaw sculpture.

    Or the bagpipes.

  • Baa, Baa, Black Sheep

    In which the Long-Suffering Husband takes bargain hunting to its logical conclusion

    As regular readers will know, I am married to a hero.

    The Long-Suffering Husband is not merely a domestic marvel, capable of performing household duties without constant supervision. He is also kind, considerate and unfailingly supportive of his wife’s more questionable ambitions.

    He has, however, one terrible vice.

    Shopping.

    My husband is a shopaholic.

    I realise this may come as a surprise. One generally associates compulsive shopping with women staggering home beneath mountains of shoes, handbags and garments they will never wear.

    Not in our household.

    Here, it is the husband who must be restrained from entering shops without a responsible adult.

    To be fair, he is extraordinarily good at finding bargains.

    Unfortunately, this is precisely the problem.

    He cannot resist a bargain.

    It doesn’t particularly matter what it is, provided the price has been sufficiently reduced.

    Our bank accounts tremble whenever he ventures into a shop alone.

    If his weakness were confined to books, clothes or electronic gadgets, I might be able to live with it. After all, books can be stacked, clothes can be squeezed into wardrobes and electronic gadgets can be hidden in cupboards until their purpose has been forgotten.

    But his real passion is food.

    Food!

    The man is determined to feed us into an early grave.

    And naturally, being the dutiful wife that I am, I feel obliged to eat whatever he brings home.

    It would be terribly wasteful not to.

    The freezer is permanently full, the cupboards are groaning under the weight of provisions and I am becoming increasingly convinced that my expanding waistline is entirely his fault.

    I have absolutely no responsibility in the matter.

    None whatsoever.

    The other day, we went shopping together.

    This, I thought, would be a sensible precaution. With me present, surely there would be limits to what he could purchase.

    We came home with a sheep.

    Yes.

    A sheep.

    Not a packet of lamb chops.

    Not a modest joint for Sunday lunch.

    An entire sheep.

    Admittedly, it was no longer in a position to object, and it had been conveniently divided into manageable portions.

    But still.

    A whole bloody sheep.

    There is a roast, a substantial quantity of ribs, enough stewing meat to sustain a small army and approximately seventy lamb chops.

    Seventy!

    I have begun to wonder whether we should invite the entire neighbourhood round for dinner.

    Or open a restaurant.

    At the very least, we ought to consider applying for agricultural subsidies.

    The Long-Suffering Husband is, of course, delighted.

    He sees an excellent bargain and a freezer full of delicious meals.

    I see several months of culinary servitude.

    Lamb roasted, lamb stewed, lamb grilled, lamb braised. Lamb with rosemary, lamb with garlic, lamb with mint sauce.

    Lamb for lunch.

    Lamb for dinner.

    Possibly lamb for breakfast, if he has his way.

    By Christmas, I expect to be bleating in my sleep.

    There is, admittedly, one possible solution.

    I could simply burn some of it.

    Not deliberately, of course. That would be wasteful.

    But accidents do happen in the kitchen, particularly when the cook is me.

    And after seventy lamb chops, even the Long-Suffering Husband might begin to regard a charcoal-blackened dinner as a welcome change.

    In the meantime, I shall have to find a way of keeping him out of the shops.

    Perhaps I could hide his wallet.

    Although knowing my husband, he’d probably come home with another sheep.

    On credit.

  • From the Mouth of Hell

    In which the Domestic Daemon declares war on the Cult of Pain

    Some women swear by it.

    I swear at it.

    There is a difference.

    I am referring, of course, to that innocent-looking little instrument of torture known as the epilator.

    A small, white-and-pink contraption which, if my suspicions are correct, was originally developed by the Spanish Inquisition before being repackaged and marketed to women as a beauty appliance.

    Its devotees are positively evangelical.

    “Oh, it’s wonderful!” they gush. “You only have to do it once a month!”

    “My legs are so silky!”

    “And it only hurts a little the first time!”

    Bollocks.

    I have tried it.

    I know.

    That machine does not remove hair. It attempts to separate one’s soul from one’s body, one follicle at a time.

    And I have come to the conclusion that the women who recommend it are not merely misguided.

    They are members of a cult.

    The Cult of Pain.

    Having suffered themselves, they are determined to recruit as many innocent victims as possible. Misery loves company, and apparently so does hair removal.

    They smile sweetly, assure you that the discomfort is minimal and then stand back to watch as you discover what it must have felt like to be interrogated in a medieval dungeon.

    Do not trust them.

    They are dangerous.

    Naturally, there are alternatives.

    One can shave, which generally results in a collection of itchy red bumps and the unpleasant sensation of having rubbed one’s legs with sandpaper.

    One can pluck, an activity best reserved for people with unlimited leisure time and a deeply suspicious relationship with pain.

    One can wax, which involves paying another person to rip hair out of one’s body.

    Or one can simply refuse to participate.

    Which brings me to a rather interesting question.

    Why do we do it?

    We are told that smooth, hairless skin is sexy. That our partners prefer it. That it is somehow more feminine.

    Really?

    Hair is a perfectly normal feature of the adult human body.

    It grows there quite naturally, without any assistance whatsoever, and yet we spend an astonishing amount of time, money and physical suffering attempting to remove it.

    Who decided that this was necessary?

    And why, having made the decision, did we all agree to go along with it?

    I suspect women themselves have a great deal to answer for.

    We maintain the myth of the perfectly smooth goddess, persuade our daughters that body hair is an unspeakable embarrassment and then recommend increasingly elaborate methods of getting rid of it.

    It is a Sisyphean task.

    No sooner have you removed the offending hairs than the blasted things begin growing back.

    Again.

    And again.

    And again.

    One might as well spend one’s life mowing the lawn with a pair of nail scissors.

    Well, I have had enough.

    I propose a revolution.

    Ladies, I invite you to abandon the Cult of Pain and join a far more enlightened movement.

    The Cult of the Yeti Women.

    Imagine the possibilities.

    No more razors.

    No more waxing appointments.

    No more standing in the bathroom with one foot on the edge of the bath, contemplating whether smooth legs are really worth the loss of one’s dignity.

    We shall embrace our natural state.

    We shall cultivate gloriously downy legs.

    We shall braid our underarm hair, perhaps decorating it with little ribbons for special occasions.

    In winter, we shall be wonderfully warm.

    And think of the money we’ll save!

    There may, admittedly, be some resistance from the cosmetics industry.

    I expect they will attempt to suppress our movement.

    But we must remain strong.

    We have suffered enough.

    Let the razors rust. Let the epilators gather dust. Let the wax remain firmly attached to its original container.

    Our motto shall be:

    HAIR IS HERE!

    And we shall live happily ever after, teaching our daughters a better, hairier way of life.

    Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an epilator to dispose of.

    Preferably with a sledgehammer.

  • The Little Gardener

    In which the Domestic Daemon discovers that self-sufficiency involves an alarming amount of physical labour

    I have a rather lovely image of myself as a gifted gardener.

    In this delightful fantasy, I am practically self-sufficient, providing our household with an abundance of fresh fruit and vegetables from our allotment.

    The vegetables grow in neat, orderly rows. The fruit bushes are heavy with berries. The herbs flourish, the flowers bloom and not a single weed dares show its face.

    There are tomatoes, courgettes, potatoes, carrots and all manner of exotic produce, each thriving under my expert supervision.

    I wander gracefully between the beds, wearing a charming straw hat and carrying a wicker basket, occasionally pausing to admire the fruits of my labour.

    It is a beautiful picture.

    Let us dwell on it for a moment.

    Because the moment we stop imagining and actually visit the allotment, the whole thing becomes considerably less attractive.

    Our allotment is seventy square metres of what can only be described as agricultural rebellion.

    The weeds are waist-high.

    The soil is stubborn.

    And the entire plot appears to have been colonised by vegetation which has absolutely no intention of making way for anything edible.

    I love my allotment.

    Or, to be more precise, I love the idea of having an allotment.

    I love the notion of being a productive, self-sufficient member of society, harvesting my own vegetables and looking down with quiet satisfaction upon those poor souls obliged to purchase theirs from supermarkets.

    What I do not particularly enjoy is the gardening.

    Have you ever tried digging, turning and weeding seventy square metres of land?

    It is bloody hard work.

    There is bending.

    There is kneeling.

    There is sweating.

    And, worst of all, there is the deeply discouraging discovery that weeds possess an enthusiasm for growing which no cultivated vegetable has ever demonstrated.

    You can spend an entire afternoon clearing a patch of ground, only to return a few days later and discover that the weeds have reclaimed it.

    I suspect they hold meetings while we are away.

    Possibly with refreshments.

    However, I have devised a brilliant solution.

    This autumn, while our neighbours are enjoying the fruits of their labour and proudly carrying home baskets of freshly harvested vegetables, we shall turn over the soil.

    Then we shall cover the entire allotment with a large sheet of that wonderfully practical black plastic which prevents anything from growing underneath it.

    And leave it there.

    For a year.

    Possibly two.

    Until every last weed has been thoroughly suffocated.

    Dead as a dodo.

    Just think of it!

    No weeding.

    No digging.

    No endless battles with plants that refuse to understand who owns the land.

    The allotment will be beautifully quiet, and I shall be free to devote my energies to far more agreeable pursuits.

    Naturally, we won’t have any vegetables either.

    But one must be prepared to make sacrifices in pursuit of the perfect garden.

    And when we finally remove the plastic, perhaps in a couple of years, we shall have a magnificent blank canvas on which to begin our agricultural empire.

    Assuming, of course, that I can summon the enthusiasm to plant anything.

    You just wait.

    We shall have a splendid allotment in no time.

    Or, at the very least, in a few years.

    Self-sufficiency, I have discovered, is considerably more enjoyable when somebody else does the digging.

    Editor’s note, 2026: I eventually moved to the countryside and now grow my own vegetables. The weeds are still winning.

  • Nigella and I

    Two Domestic Goddesses, separated by a few minor details

    Nigella Lawson and I are practically identical.

    Twins, in fact, separated at birth by a particularly wicked fairy godmother.

    Admittedly, there are one or two minor differences.

    Nigella, for instance, actually cooks things that look every bit as delicious as her enthusiastic moaning suggests they taste.

    She is also dark, sultry and impossibly glamorous, whereas I am pale, mousey-haired and rather more likely to be mistaken for someone who has come to read the electricity meter.

    Then there is the small matter of age.

    Nigella is more than ten years older than I am, yet somehow manages to look ten years younger.

    I find this deeply offensive.

    But apart from these trifling discrepancies, we are practically indistinguishable.

    Let us examine the evidence.

    The moaning

    Have you noticed how Nigella positively purrs over her cooking?

    Every spoonful, every lick of cake batter, every delicious little morsel is greeted with noises normally associated with activities that have absolutely nothing to do with preparing supper.

    Personally, I have my suspicions.

    How do we know she is actually moaning over the food?

    For all we know, there is a tiny gentleman concealed beneath the kitchen counter, administering a particularly delightful foot massage while the cameras concentrate on Nigella licking chocolate from her fingertips.

    Have you noticed how rarely we see anything below her waist?

    Exactly.

    The youthful appearance

    As previously mentioned, Nigella has committed the unforgivable sin of being older than I am while looking considerably younger.

    Naturally, I have considered every possible explanation.

    Good genes. Excellent lighting. Expensive face creams. A personal pact with the Devil.

    Or perhaps a little help from the cosmetic industry?

    I have absolutely no evidence of the latter, but that has never prevented a thoroughly jealous woman from entertaining the possibility.

    If I had Nigella’s money, I would probably investigate Botox myself.

    Although knowing my luck, I would emerge from the clinic unable to raise an eyebrow, which would deprive me of approximately half my conversational repertoire.

    The figure

    And here, at last, we discover something we genuinely have in common.

    We are both blessed with generously proportioned posteriors.

    Hippopotamus-sized, if one is feeling particularly uncharitable.

    Which I frequently am.

    And yet, remarkably, we both have husbands who appear perfectly satisfied with the arrangement.

    So perhaps there is hope for us mere mortals after all.

    Perhaps beauty is not entirely dependent upon youth, flawless complexions, slender hips or the ability to make eating chocolate cake look like an erotic experience.

    Perhaps our husbands simply have excellent taste.

    Or perhaps they know better than to complain.

    Either way, I have reached a comforting conclusion.

    Nigella and I really are rather alike.

    Except, of course, that she is a Domestic Goddess.

    And I am a Domestic Daemon.

    But we both have magnificent bottoms.

  • The Surrendered Wife

    In which the Domestic Daemon discovers the advantages of unconditional surrender

    I am a surrendered wife.

    Not in the sense advocated by that peculiar movement which enjoyed a brief spell of popularity in the 1990s. Does anyone remember those women who believed the secret to a happy marriage was to surrender control to their husbands?

    No, my surrender is of a rather more practical nature.

    I have surrendered all housework to mine.

    And I must say, it is working splendidly.

    You see, the Long-Suffering Husband has turned out to be something of a domestic prodigy.

    He swoops around the house, picking up bits and pieces, putting things away and generally behaving like a man who has discovered his true vocation.

    He takes an almost indecent pride in a freshly washed kitchen floor.

    A spotless coffee table fills him with satisfaction.

    I find this fascinating.

    I also find it extremely pleasant to watch.

    Unfortunately, the spectacle has never inspired me to follow his example.

    For most of my adult life, I have struggled to become a Domestic Goddess.

    I have bought the books, watched the programmes, admired the immaculate kitchens and entertained ambitious fantasies involving freshly baked bread, polished furniture and beautifully arranged flowers.

    The results have been disappointing.

    I am perfectly capable of appreciating a clean house. I simply lack the burning desire to clean it.

    There is a difference.

    For years, this unfortunate discrepancy between aspiration and inclination caused me considerable guilt.

    I knew perfectly well that the dishes ought to be washed.

    I just didn’t particularly care whether they were.

    I knew that respectable people made their beds every morning.

    I couldn’t see the point.

    After all, I was only going to get back into it.

    Then, a few months ago, I experienced a moment of extraordinary clarity.

    Sod it, I thought.

    And surrendered.

    No more guilt about the dishes.

    No more agonising over unmade beds.

    No more pretending that I was about to develop an overwhelming enthusiasm for dusting.

    I would simply leave things alone.

    Surely, somehow, the household would sort itself out.

    And do you know what?

    It did.

    One morning, I came home from work. One of my jobs involves working nights, which means I occasionally return home at an hour when respectable housewives are just beginning their daily assault on the dust.

    I walked into the kitchen.

    It was spotless.

    Absolutely immaculate.

    The worktops gleamed. The floor was clean. Everything was exactly where it ought to be.

    I stood in the doorway, bewildered.

    Had Nigella moved in?

    Had Saint Delia appeared on our doorstep, begging for employment as a housekeeper?

    Had some benevolent domestic fairy taken pity on me?

    No.

    The Long-Suffering Husband had simply had enough.

    He had cleaned the kitchen himself.

    And, having discovered the satisfaction of a job well done, he apparently decided to keep doing it.

    I could scarcely believe my luck.

    The plan could not have worked better if I had actually planned it.

    These days, Husband takes care of virtually everything domestic, with two notable exceptions.

    Cooking and baking.

    Although, strictly speaking, baking is no longer an exception.

    I have been banned.

    This unfortunate development followed an incident last weekend involving several mixing bowls, a collection of spatulas and a quantity of flour which I neglected to wash out of the sink.

    By the time Husband discovered the evidence, the flour had set to a consistency normally associated with reinforced concrete.

    He was not amused.

    I pointed out that I had been baking, not cleaning.

    Apparently, this distinction failed to impress him.

    Cooking, however, remains within my jurisdiction.

    For the time being.

    My food generally tastes perfectly acceptable, but its appearance leaves something to be desired.

    Indeed, most of my culinary creations resemble something even Oliver Twist would have refused, and that poor child was hardly in a position to be fussy.

    Still, the flavour is usually quite good.

    As long as the lighting is sufficiently dim, dinner remains an enjoyable experience.

    Which reminds me.

    I really ought to do something about the kitchen lighting.

    Perhaps some new surgical lights?

    They are terribly fashionable, aren’t they?

    And if my cooking ever becomes completely inedible, at least Husband will be able to perform an emergency operation.

    Assuming, of course, that he has finished mopping the floor.