LAST night saw the start of a new TV series, Coming Clean, in which different people reveal their attitudes to housework.

Unfortunately I missed it on account of an important engagement with Mr Muscle Bathroom Cleaner. The job could have waited, but traces of limescale were beginning to creep around the taps again and I just couldn't ignore them. If this gives you an indication about my attitude to housework, then you've probably guessed right.

When I lived on my own, my flat was a shrine to domestic cleaning products. The beige living room carpet remained unmarked for eight years and you could invariably see your own reflection in the kitchen floor. The mirrors were smear-free, the second-hand cooker looked newer than when it had been new and the neighbours could always rely on me when they ran out of bleach.

Far from being proud of this, however, I was ashamed. Housework is dull and often pointless. You can spend hours doing it, only to find that you have to do it all over again just a few days later. Where's the sense of achievement? No one has ever won a Nobel Prize for having a spotless home and it's a common knowledge that great minds never worry about dusting.

My visitors probably weren't aware of my compulsive cleanliness as I'd mess up the place a bit before they arrived. I'd scatter a few newspapers on the floor, put some mugs back on the draining board and bounce up and down on the sofa to flatten the cushions. By the time the doorbell rang, my flat would resemble the normal, live-in abode of a completely sane and balanced person.

Obsessions like these usually say something more about the person than simply an aversion to untidiness. The term "control freak" comes to mind, although to make the picture more complicated, I was also the sort whose cupboards were a mess. I wouldn't have a clue where I'd "tidied away" my nail scissors.

More complex still is that whenever I've been in other people's excessively neat and orderly homes, I've felt extremely uncomfortable. I'd always much preferred tripping over odd shoes and dirty plates in the houses of my more slovenly friends, who, just to confuse the issue further, always looked immaculate themselves and were impeccable when it came to personal hygiene. (Therein lies a theory).

Now, thanks largely to a husband who has a more rational approach to housework - cushion plumping: acceptable, daily floor scrubbing: unnecessary - and a baby who's too young to be included in the cleaning rota, I have managed to lower my standards.

With a conscious effort, I can leave the washing up for anything up to two hours and I'm learning to love the little finger prints that smother the telly.

In fact, I'm almost confident that if Hello! magazine should arrive unexpectedly for a photo shoot, our house will look so natural and homely that I'll be able to say: "I'm afraid you'll have to take us as you find us."

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.