Grubby Nets and No Knickers...

It's official; I've turned into one of those women. I collected fourteen loo-roll tubes, seven empty shampoo bottles and an assortment of decaying insects from my bathroom today. I wanted to bathe, but the bath was dirtier than I was. Amazingly enough, the bleach bottle was still full though...

I've had to buy the kids new clothes because they've nothing clean to wear, and my fridge is home to E-coli, salmonella and something furry with ears. Bending to retrieve a black, balled-up sports sock from the floor, I realised it wasn't a sock at all, but a nub of mouldy bread. It must have been sitting there on my terracotta-grey tiled floor for hours, if not weeks.

I've never been meticulously house-proud; preferring, instead, to subscribe to the Only Boring Women Have Immaculate Homes school of thought, but even I can see that things have gone too far. I have become a slob, a slovenly sloth and a slattern.

Do all would-be writers live in this perpetual state of decay, I wonder?