Making beds

"Why are you making Grandpere's bed?" asked my son when I was at my parents.
"Well, because Grandpere can't," I replied.
"Why not?"
"Making beds is really difficult. Not for you and me, we have duvets. He has sheets. He has to bend and stretch, he's old now."
"You can leave it," says my son.
"Yes, I could, but if Grandpere goes into his tidy bedroom and his bed's all messy, he's just going to think his whole life is messy too and he can't do anything about it, which will make him sad. His tidy bed is symbolic of his tidy life."
"Oh, ok."

"Bloody hell," I say later to my sister. "Everything I'm doing in this house; the tidying, cleaning, cooking, bedmaking, sweeping, I don't do any of this back home in London!"

Two days ago, after I'd hit the snooze button a couple of times on the alarm clock, my son jumped on me. "Mummy, get up, see what I've done!"

Not only had he made his bed, straightened the blue blanket on top of it, but he'd also tidied up his book case, cleared the books and toys around it, effectively cleared his entire space.

He's inherited my mum's tidy gene. I so want him to have his own room so he doesn't have to deal with my clutter.

I must attack my clutter. Right now. If not for me, for him.

Puccini's Nessun Dorma, sung by Pavarotti, translation messed with by Stigmum

Nobody shall sleep! Nobody shall sleep!
Even you oh prince
until I tidy our room...
.....
.....
At dawn I will win! I will win! I will win!