1. Sweeping Leaves in the Wind: A man’s voyage through a woman’s mind.
Author: The Author, his business in ruins, finds himself stranded on the home front. What starts
out as a seemingly innocent effort to chip in with the chores, takes an unexpected and tumultuous
turn into the swirling reality of a woman’s world. It is a unique confession; words that you never
thought you would hear from the mouth of a man. A book in progress….
Chapter 1
A Man’s voyage through a Woman’s Mind
While I couldn’t have known it at the time, I was about to take on the task that would complete my
course in domestic servitude and, I hasten to add, that terms such as household management or
domestic bliss are either woefully inadequate or utterly misleading. Management is only a small
part of the puzzle and bliss is rarely, if ever, part of the equation with the possible exception of those
precious few seconds that arrive between exhaustion and slumber; a brief respite that is notably
wiped out and erased from one’s memory with the dawning of every new domestic day.
In the spirit of transparency I will confirm now, that the challenge that stretched out before me was
quite daunting. My wife and partner, Adele, more partner now than ever before, for reasons
explained herein, was heading off on a journey that had been planned well in advance. In the
interim, we had accepted a booking for seven American guests that happened to fall within the same
time frame. I should qualify this by pointing out that we do not run a bed and breakfast. We do,
however, take on summer guests, where possible, when demand exceeds local capacity or as part of
the foreign student programme. This sort of ad hoc hotel scheme is a recent evolution and a by-
product of the economic downturn.
Adele volunteered several times along the way to cancel her trip. She questioned, outright, if I was
biting off more than I could chew. She repeatedly responded to my self-confidence with suspicion
and , to be fair to her motives, she was, I believe, endeavouring to be fair to me. My significant
other had only recently begun to express her appreciation of my expanding domestic contribution
and there was, I’m sure she felt, reasonably good cause to wonder if my confidence was
overstretching my capabilities.
With less than twenty four hours to go before Adele’s departure, her obsessive, compulsive
overdrive was fully engaged. Women should not take umbrage with what, I believe, is an eminently
accurate description. It just seems irrefutable that women are genetically engineered to seek
order, where us men, on average, perceive order as an option relative to circumstances. We have
no problem with chaos as long as it is functional. However, having subscribed to her standards, I
was obliged to take my orders obediently and to pay close attention to the particulars as she
instructed.
Initially it wasn’t that difficult. As originally stated and outlined in further detail below, I was well on
my way to becoming an accomplished domestic. While I didn’t relate, nor did I feel that I would
ever relate to the female imperative, I had come to recognise the nuances that separate and elevate
a “woman clean” from a “man clean”. There are very few women who would require further

2. clarification on the point but, on the off chance that there are any male readers and I suspect that
there will ultimately be more than a few women who will feel naturally inclined to shove this article
under the noses, if not completely down the throats of their respective partners, suffice to say that a
“man clean” is more or less defined by one’s ability to get to the sofa, the TV or the food without
falling over anything along the way. The woman aspires to a standard that achieves a degree of
excellence upon this plane. That which wasn’t wired in phylogenetically has been programmed in
ontogenetically either directly by her mother or indirectly by the media and society at large.
In the aforementioned context, it is worth noting that, if only for anthropological reasons, men are
also little more than a product of their programming. The example was established by our fathers
and acquiesced to by our mothers who, aside from their normal predisposition, tend to dote on their
sons remorselessly with little regard for their part in the misogynistic cyclical chain and with no
apparent compassion for their future daughters-in-law. It does call into question the feminist
integrity of many, if not most, mothers that they would willingly visit the inequities of their own
existence on the shoulders of future generations. One could logically deduce that the very first
mother might have been the most culpable party for this sort of entropy. However, to be fair, she
was probably being dragged around by her hair at the hands of some troglodyte brute who went
through life seriously pissed off that neither football nor television had yet been invented.
There she stood, my wife, with a ‘toothbrush’ in her hand, instructing me to scrub away the rust that
had accumulated at the base of the bathroom sink faucet. It was a step beyond where I had been
before but, at that point, I had become well accustomed to the constant raising of the bar. I took
the toothbrush without any hint of resistance and went about the task. As I stood there scrubbing
away the rust, she suggested that, as I had the toothbrush anyway, I should also clean away the
grime at the base of the sink stand ……. And the crud at the foot of the toilet bowl…..and the dirt
around the base of the bath…..and the joint between the wall and the tiles around the full perimeter
of the entire bathroom……and any of the other tile joints with built up mildew……..
There was a brief moment, standing there with my mouth agape, when I considered asking her if
she, herself, had ever cleaned the entire bathroom with a toothbrush. What she was asking me to
do carried a stench of invention. I found it hard to believe that, even in her most anal-retentive
extremes, she would take obsessiveness to the degree that she was asking of me. However, I had
already declared, within, that I was prepared to go as far as she willed me to go. I would not back
down to any challenge. If I had, it would have conceded the high moral ground to her forever. For
days she had been calling into question my fitness for carrying the ball entirely on my own. Perhaps
there was a bit of husband-child psychology in her method, probably so, but, at that point, I would
have found a way of giving birth rather than surrendering to her Venusian superiority. I resolved to
cloak myself in Zen consciousness and to go about the job like an aspiring monk on his first day in
the Ashram.
It took me the better part of two hours to work my way around the room. There was not only
considerable elbow grease to be invested, in terms of the digging and scrubbing that had to be done
with the toothbrush but the resulting mucky residue had to be wiped away and sopped up with a
sponge. The excavation at the base of the toilet bowl was particularly vile.
Taking on the bathroom had come in the latter part of my training. Adele had tried to break me
down on this front on numerous occasions but I had protested that men just don’t do porcelain. Of

3. course she had challenged my refusal by insisting, along predictable, feminist lines, that no job that
she had done on numerous occasions should be considered beneath me. For a time I had come up
with what I thought was a fairly clever rebuttal.
I had said “when you are prepared to scoop the dog poop, mow the lawn, wash out the trash bins,
clean the shed or do any of the other thankless jobs at the bottom rung of the male domain ….. then
I’ll clean the porcelain”. I do recognise now, in retrospect, how utterly out of line I was for choosing
the word ‘thankless’ in the presence of a woman. In that regard I have no choice but to fall back on
the Darwinian defence. Evolution is a very slow process.
For a time the ploy seemed to work and I managed to keep the bathroom duty at bay. But then, by
either circumstance or design, she grasped the gilded nettle with which I had shielded myself. She
exploited my position when I had been rendered weak and defenceless. I was down with the ‘man
‘flu’! When I heard the mower splutter and whirr into action I hadn’t the strength to lobby a
protest, much less intervene in what I perceived as a blatant act of subversion. Of course the hum
of the mower also betrayed the fact that she must have scooped the dog poop. It was logical that
one so “A-Type” as herself would not have even considered ploughing over the canine excrement
with a rotating, reckless abandon. As much as she might have detested the job, the threat of soiling
the soles of her designer wellies or, God forbid, the withering notion of tracking the turd into the
house, surely had to drive her to take on a task that, heretofore, would have been considered well,
well beyond the pale. She proclaimed, after the fact, that she did the jobs for no other reason than
“they had to be done”. However, through the full vision of hindsight, there is no doubt in my mind
that these seemingly innocent activities were an opening salvo in a broader battle and a well-
orchestrated campaign. As I lay there in my flu-bed wallowing in sweaty self-pity, I had no choice
but to acknowledge that my return to good health would be greeted with yet another expansion in
my domestic duty. With one decisive move she had put the toilet on the table. From then on
nothing could be considered out of bounds. The gloves were well and truly off!
With all that said, I never could have imagined, in my most feverish moments, just how steep the
slope would ultimately become. Beyond the scrubbing of several metres of grimy floor joints with a
diminutive brush otherwise designed for nothing more substantial than dental care, I had to, in the
flow of the process, clean and polish all of the surfaces above ground level. I scrubbed the tub,
scoured the toilet, shined the hardware, windexed the mirror and window, wiped down the wall tiles
and buffed up the towel rack. Having done the full round of the bathroom and feeling confident
that I had achieved, if not surpassed, the standard, I found myself back at the sink where I had
started with my now well-worn toothbrush, finishing off the last little bit of tile joint at the base of
the wall.
What happened next can best be described in astronomical terms. It was like falling into a black
hole. I actually witnessed the slowing of time. While it wasn’t sudden, it was certainly shocking.
Initially it was a glance but then the scene unfolded into the full horror of the filth on the wall in
front of me. The entire under-surface, behind and beneath the sink, was covered in grime. I just
could not believe that I hadn’t seen it before. As I moved my head forward for closer examination,
another dimension opened out within the periphery of my vision. The hollow cavity at the back of
the sink stand was utterly stuffed with caked-on cobwebs and a deep film comprised of dirt and
dust. This was even more alarming than the original discovery below the sink because I hadn’t any

4. prior knowledge that this hidden vault existed. I had just presumed, I felt reasonably enough, that
the sink stand was in fact solid. While my mind did not wander that far in the moment, it would beg
the obvious question in time. What other hidden chambers of dark disgust lay hidden around this
house? I was beginning to feel very woozy and unsure of my footing. It was like reality had stopped
and I had somehow stumbled into a parallel universe. How could a room that had just been
polished to near perfection only moments before, now be sucked down into a vortex of vileness?
And then, barely balanced on my hands and knees, as if I somehow needed finishing off, my head
cocked slightly to the left for no explicable reason, as though seduced by the siren’s call, and the
surface of the radiator revealed itself in full relief. At a distance, the enamelled plate was a creamy
white but at closer contact it was covered with a black sticky gunk. I was surrounded! It didn’t
matter where I cast my vision, forward or back, left or right, up or down, there was just dirt, dirt, dirt
everywhere! I was swirling in a state of plummeting vertigo. My instincts informed me that I
needed to get out, back or to someplace beyond, before I passed the point of no return. I whipped
my head upward reactively and smacked my skull hard on the underside of the sink bowl. The
endorphin rush poured over me in an instant and allowed my body to readily transcend the short
term pain but the very same neurotransmitters collided with the adrenalin that was coursing
through my veins and the panic was complete. I am not sure how I got to my feet. I wasn’t steady
but I managed to stumble and fall back into the hall where the air seemed to be fresher and the
threat began to recede. For a brief moment, I stood there, almost motionless braced by the wall
before my knees surrendered to the demand of gravity and my body slid downward into a standing
foetal position.
Having regained my equilibrium, I could see the bathroom as it truly was in the world as it should be.
The dirty dark corner was still there in all its inglorious grime but it represented little more than a
stain on anotherwise glistening surface. It was in that instance that I realised the nature and origin
of my metamorphosis. I had no choice but to confront the architect of my misfortune.
For the briefest time I leaned against the kitchen door, standing stealthily, observing Adele as she
burned with efficiency through a formidable pile of ironing. There are precious few males who
understand the athleticism and endurance required to level a mountain of pressing. I had taken on
the challenge on a few occasions and the job never fails to humble me to the point of a mumbling
mad man. We think that, because we have from time to time ironed a shirt or pressed a pair of
trousers, that there is really nothing in it. But a dash and a swipe doesn’t even add up to a sprint.
Making a discernible dent in a large stack of laundry requires a colossal lot of focus and fortitude.
And ultimately the reward for her labour is a complete lack of appreciation for what the inhabitants
perceive as an act of prestidigitation not to mention that the load self-replicates within a number of
hours. It’s a marathon that never comes to an end. There are some women, particularly those with
large families, who have gone through decades without ever seeing the bottom of the pile.
Eventually she sensed my presence at the door in that same way that she does whenever I
endeavour to tip-toe into the bedroom after a late night with the lads. Women suffer from extreme
sensory perception. Their radar never shuts down. I believe that it has something to do with
babies. It is a wonder that they ever sleep at all.

5. She lifted her head, not so much with surprise, but alert to my demonic demeanour. She looked at
me quizzically. I blurted out my thoughts, as I am all too often inclined to do, with the tense tone of
a barrister deep within the throes of a cross examination.
“You knew,” I asked point blank, “didn’t you?”
With one eye arched ever so slightly and a face masked in non-disclosure, she responded predictably
“Knew what?”
“You knew when you handed me the toothbrush! You knew where it would lead me. You had to
know”
“I have no idea what you are raving about” she stated obtusely discounting my directness with
supercilious disregard.
“Oh, sure you don’t!” I said with a mocking emphasis, allowing the accusation to linger in the air.
“What are you on about?”
“What am I on about? I’ll tell you what I’m on about. I just had one of the most frightening
experiences of my life. I was going about the job as ‘you’ instructed and the next thing I know I am
tumbling head over heels into the well of a woman’s mind. It was awful! I am actually traumatised!
I might never be able to enter a bathroom again!”
She laughed condescendingly – almost wickedly!
“Ah ha!” I confirmed. “See there. You did know. I knew you knew. It was part of your plan all along
wasn’t it? You couldn’t just be satisfied that I was doing my bit. You had to drag me into your
nightmare!”
“Oh stop being so hysterical and don’t be so naïve. Where did you think this was all going to go?
You’re the one who’s always quoting Castenada. You know what can happen when you go too close
to the ruins. What did you think you were going to find? It was only a matter of time. You are
either all the way in or you’re out. There is no half-way house. It was you who said you could do it.
Now the question is, can you live with it?”
“What do you mean can I live with it? I never said I was signing up to womanhood. This wasn’t
meant to be an exercise in transgenderisation. I was trying to be a decent, contributing partner.
OK! Fair enough, I have now seen it from the inside out. There is clearly a whole other level, several
other levels, but I want no part of that. It’s…..it’s…..it’s…..a bridge too far!”
She chuckled, barely audibly, to herself with all the knowingness of a laughing Buddha. “I’m sorry,
dear husband but it’s like the Mafia. Once you’re in there’s no way out. There’s no going back. It
will be a little scary at first but - you’ll get used to it!”
“Oh no I won’t. I’ll do my share but I’m no sister in the sorority. No way baby! No way!”
I figured that she was just messing with my head but the notion, the threat, was still deeply
disturbing. I plunged my fists into my pockets grabbing a fistful of my man package behind the veil

6. of my fly for reassurance, as blokes are inclined to do, and I turned on my heels departing the room.
“ A solemn procession of one!”
She was certainly correct on at least one account. Having wandered too close to the ruins, I had to
face up to the spectre. As every old tripper knows, running away from the nightmare only renders it
all the more real. “The only way out is through”. I returned to the scene of the crime and
completed the job with tremulous confidence. That is to say I took on the task while wearing my
concerns like Gogol’s overcoat. I stuck my hand into the crawling mass of the sink stand cavity with
the trepidation of a snake charmer who has once been bitten. I scrubbed and clawed my way
through the grubby mass below the sink like a determined prisoner scratching his way to freedom. I
attacked the radiator, wiping and buffing the surface with the pride and zeal of a Fort Knox janitor.
As I departed the room, I turned briefly to dwell on the fruits of my labour and like a character out of
Hemingway, I knew “that it was good”.
As the day wore on and I moved throughout the labyrinth of our dormer bungalow, I couldn’t help
but notice the strange observations that were infiltrating my head. The wooden floors that had
gone otherwise unnoticed, even when I had passed over them with a vacuum, were now scarred to
the point of distraction. I made a mental note that, at some time in the future, finances permitting, I
would love to get all the floors sanded and refinished. Then there were the filthy sofas that need to
be recovered, if not replaced altogether. And how many times had I traversed the flagstones in the
kitchen without noticing that they were in desperate need of a good steaming? The hood over the
stove, where I made at least one meal each day, was thick with oily grease; yet another revelation.
Dust appeared, like my nemesis, everywhere I looked. My eyes weren’t my eyes anymore. I
couldn’t stop seeing my environment through the prism of female paranoia. For the first time in my
life I understood why Howard Hughes had locked himself away in a hermetically sealed room. There
was no avoiding truth. I was trapped within the confines of a woman’s mind. I became obsessed
with cleaning.
Fortunately, for me the visitors from America were absolutely delightful, so much so that it was
genuinely difficult taking money upon their departure; not a notion, I might add, that would have
crossed ‘the’ woman’s mind, which isn’t to suggest that she isn’t generous by nature. She can do
giving, when so inclined, to a near fault. However, as the household financial manager, a burden
that she carries along in the trunk of her massive mortal cargo, she cannot afford the luxury of
economic equivocation. Unlike me, she is not afflicted with financial ambiguity, or, as she likes to
call it, “total irresponsibility”. To this I am prepared to concede a plea; to the misdemeanour at
least.
The weekend was a bit of a blur considering that I was entertaining, feeding and/or driving seven
guests, my own four daughters and two teenage sleep-over friends. Although I was loath to admit
it, I was gaining insight as to why so many women tend to operate with such frenetic compulsivity.
Setting aside for the moment that the job often requires a mad scramble from Billy to Jack, there is
also a fearful, burning awareness that if one were to stop, for even a minute, the whole false edifice
would collapse like a house of cards.
It’s as good a time as any to digress, laying all levity aside, to touch on what turned out to be the
most poignant lesson from this experience. For years, no different than the mass of males
throughout the world, I couldn’t figure out what my wife had been complaining about. The work,

7. from the outside looking in, didn’t appear to be all that physically or mentally demanding. It frankly
seemed to be a doodle by comparison to the pressure that went with bringing home the bacon. In
my life, as a creative independent, I have to constantly make something out of nothing. I only get
paid for what I can manifest from my imagination. In the first instance, she had never been at all
reluctant to credit me profusely for what I do well. Secondly, the domestic job does throw up hot
spots that are very physically demanding. Most importantly, the repetitious mediocrity, the mind
numbing perpetualism and the thankless insignificance, which is to say, the familial emotional
negligence, is more than enough to drive any human, regardless of their gender, well beyond the
bitter edge. While it is not universally so for every women, millions, if not billions, of marital
‘partners’ surrender the individual within, dwindle and/or die on the vine, as their lives become little
more than a slave to the rhythm. And to whatever degree I might allow myself to take pride from
the learning, it is to my eternal shame that it has taken me eighteen years of marriage to recognise
what is painfully obvious.
As to the special ones, who have both a career and a job at home, it only adds insult to injury. Lucky
her, not only does she have to cook the bacon and clean up the mess, she gets to share in the
privilege of killing the pig as well…. Oh hum, for whatever reason could she not be happy? I do
wonder.
The following three days after the guest had departed, proved to be some of the most challenging
days of my life. While I may have done harder labour, particularly in my youth when my body was
more fit and able, it’s the schismatic nature of the job, the constant cleaning and cooking and
washing and wiping, the rushing to and fro, the demands of the kids as though ones only duty was to
be at their beck and call, the inability to focus on any given task when focus is most required……
There is no point in reciting the whole litany that most women know by heart and that too few men
are prepared to respond to. It’s just bottomless, this well of domestic consciousness. It would take
the length of this article to the tenth power to list every item that I ploughed through over those few
days.
Godzilla lives in the laundry room. Over the course of the six days, I did twenty seven loads of
laundry. That’s washing, hanging on the line, damp drying, ironing, folding, pairing, itemising,
categorising and putting away. I call it Godzilla because it doesn’t matter how much artillery you
spend or how many shots that you take at it, it keeps on coming back, relentlessly larger each time!
I mentioned this to our neighbour, Catherine. I said “it’s like chaos out in front of you and a
collapsing wormhole behind you. You’re just running to stay alive.” Catherine laughed out loud, I
believe, at the novelty of a man sharing in a woman’s pain and then she dropped the line like the
proverbial penny, thumping me on my noggin. She said “My Mother used to call it ‘Sweeping leaves
in the wind’” Checkmate! It couldn’t have been explained better.
When Adele did arrive home what she found was a chamber of refined cleanliness. While it wasn’t
perfect, because, once inside a woman’s mind, perfection is impossible, it was well within the
prescriptive of her own exceptionally high standards.
I took her on a tour of the house; yes, to some degree, because I required a solid dose of affirmation
for my efforts but, equally, I would like to think anyway, to see her relaxed and at one with herself.

8. She was genuinely pleased, beyond mere satisfaction, to the point of near wonderment. As she
stood there on the precipice, I nudged her over the edge by escorting her into the sitting room
where the candles were lit and the bottle of wine was chilling in the bucket. I had, of course, put a
place mat under the frothy container to ensure that there would be no watermark the following
morning. With women, the devil is most definitely in the detail.
Having worn the skin of a woman, and, in that regard, having completed my degree, I was obliged to
confess that I completely comprehended the inequities that had gone before. I have since pledged
that this wasn’t a once off and that I would continue to fulfil my duty as an equal and contributing
partner.
I am fully aware that numerous men will want to murder me and that I may ultimately have to
change my name and disappear into the witness protection programme. But if I’m to be dragged
before the court of my own gender, I would offer up the following in my defence. In the first
instance, it may seem that I’ve taken on a lot more strife for little reward. Nothing could be further
from the truth. Not only has our couple conflict dissipated to a negligible degree but, more and
more, it has been replaced with a generous and kindred communication. Over and above our own
enjoyment in each other’s company, our children have been the beneficiaries of our greater civility.
And in that regard, we should all feel deeply obliged to recognise that their future happiness, if not
their sanity, will to some degree be a by-product of our marital coalescence.
I will go even further by saying that I have witnessed the resurgence of the woman that I once
married. For a very long time, I have harboured the fear that she was dead and buried. Moreover, I
have carried that guilt that I was the most culpable party in her demise. It would be hard for one to
imagine the relief, without going through the process, in finding out that she is not only alive and
well, but more miraculously, still capable of loving me in a way that she once did a long time ago.
That woman that I once wed was famous for wearing her joie de vivre on her sleeve. I am gleeful to
remake her acquaintance and thrilled with the possibility of falling in love all over again. And who
would of ‘thunk’ it? She was there all along buried beneath a mountain of laundry.
We have all heard and read numerous discussions regarding the complexities of building and
maintaining a long term relationship. I suspect there are some truths in all of them. However, the
one universal truth that comes out of this experience is that a peaceful, prosperous, loving co-
existence can only survive and thrive in the long run where both parties are prepared and fully
committed to the recognition, the support and the promotion of the other person as an individual.
And ironically our own individual survival, within the context of the relationship, is proportionally
interdependent on the elevation and the edification of the relevant other. Or in simple terms, the
more complete that she can be, the more fulfilled that I become. Let us call it the marital law of
motion.
Lest that you thought you might come out of this unscathed, ladies, I have reserved my final criticism
for you. In general, with some exceptions, your communication skills regarding these matters do
often times suck! All that white noise, which usually manifests as a persecution complex, falls well
short of conveying the big idea. If you prefer, if it makes it easier to swallow the criticism, you can
go with the daytime television version that suggests that all men are simple creatures who require
more basic language. Either way, here are the words that you’ve been looking for all these many

9. years. And however it may sound, I’m not saying this condescendingly, I never would have
discovered the language if I hadn’t ventured through the backwoods of a woman’s mind.
“Dear husband, it is like this. You are sailing over the waters of your life and however calm or
turbulent those waters may be, and I have no doubt that there are great challenges ahead and
difficulties in maintaining the integrity of your craft but……….. I am no longer on board. I’ve gone
over. That’s me that you see bobbing in the water. I’m drowning……in
repetition….mediocrity…..insignificance and irrelevance. I am submerged. No, it is not difficult to
tread water per se but no-one could survive, having to do it all day and every day. Did I mention that
I’m drowning? It’s not that I require a little help or assistance. I am actually going under and I need
you to jump in with me. Do what you need to do to anchor your craft and you might want to
consider the value of having me back on board, but, for the moment, I need you to jump in…. or
contact your lawyer. However much I may love you I am not prepared to surrender my life in favour
of yours!”
It is a clear and simple analogy and, regardless of his intellectual capabilities, or lack thereof, it
should be readily comprehensible to any male, unless the man is a sociopath. However, if it turns
out that he is so thick or otherwise entrenched in his predisposition, I strongly recommend that you
hand him a toothbrush and point him towards the bathroom. It certainly worked for me!