SOME women really do love cleaning. I should know - my mother's one of them.

Some people collect china animals, cuddly toys, or stamps; my mother collects Cilit Bang, Cif and Mr Sheen, all jammed into a cupboard like an alcoholic's hoard.

As a child I grew to dread the throaty roar of the Hoover as it burst into life, unleashing the sixth housekeeping frenzy of the week.

And the worst of it was that mum would see cleaning as a release for pent-up frustration.

She loved nothing better than to bottom the house after a row with dad, who would take the appearance of mop and duster as his cue to slope off down the pub.

He would heartlessly leave us kids to cower in our rooms and flinch as the vacuum cleaner slammed into the skirting boards like a battering ram at the castle gate.

If Channel 4's Kim and Aggie should ever tire of touring the homes of Britain's muckier mortals, the producers need look no further than mum for a more-than-able replacement. She can spot a microbe at a million paces and has no time for those less house-proud than herself.

Such as me.

With a pedigree like mine, I really should be no slouch in the cleaning department. But while mum has passed her love of cats to me, she has not managed to do the same with her passion for clearing up after them when they drag half the garden through the cat flap, or conduct a massacre on the hearthrug.

I thank God no sociologist yet seems to have calculated how much of your life you spend on cleaning the house. I'd find the outcome deeply depressing; just as well I don't really bother with such nonsense myself.

I'd have no problem - well, less of a problem - with cleaning if it was a job that stayed done. But no matter how thoroughly you dredge your house, it will persist in silting itself up again.

Where does it all come from? Personally, I blame hobgoblins, or maybe it is evidence of the supernatural. Yeah, maybe that's it... ghosts come to the house while I'm sleeping, and leave me a sink full of pots.

None of this usually presents too much of a difficulty as long as I remember to keep the curtains closed when the window cleaner comes round.

But horror of horrors, the day of judgement is nigh. Mother is coming to stay, and the dirt has got to go. It's not like having a normal visit, when you can whip all the scuzz into the spare room and push the door until the latch clicks shut against the mess.

No. This time mum's coming to look after the cats, and we won't be at home to stop her from stumbling on the layers of dust which we have left to nurture new life forms behind the computer terminal.

So... we've hired a carpet cleaner, which seems to have done the trick if the deep filth of the used water is anything to go by.

After a long and tedious afternoon's work, all the out-of-date raisins and lentils have been chucked and the kitchen cupboards have been restored to order.

Five bags of clothing are waiting to go to the charity shop, I'm finally going to ditch my pile of magazines dating back to 1987 and the Other Half may even put his guitars in the attic where they belong.

The cats look a bit confused, because the house has suddenly got bigger. Things look so good, we may just get into this cleaning lark... at least, after we've finished everything else we'd rather do.

Updated: 09:31 Wednesday, August 31, 2005