The Beginning

This weekend brought the start of something new that was incredibly exciting, overwhelmingly sad and undeniably petrifying - the birth of a 21^st Century housewife: The exciting part being moving in with my boyfriend of four and a half years; the sad part being leaving my happy and comfortable home with my mum; and the petrifying part? Realising how big the world actually is and having someone else depend on me for my half of the rent and depending on someone else for their half.

We moved in together on Saturday, an exhausting experience all on its own, considering we are renting a second floor flat and were running all our worldly possessions up to it, wardrobe and double bed included. Whilst Mike assembled the furniture, I vacuumed around him, having made him lunch and about to embark on making the bed. Fortunately for me, the chores ended there as it was Domino’s pizza for dinner. Sunday was spent arranging the homeware and my possessions while my boyfriend, Mike, played golf all day. Yes you did read that correctly.

Whilst not being a housewife in the typical sense (my boyfriend and I are not actually married and I do not stay at home all day while he is the breadwinner) there are certain traits I did not expect to inherit.

So what makes me call myself a housewife when I wouldn’t fit the description in the dictionary? For starters, I have become the household cook. I have never been a cook. My spaghetti has always tasted like cardboard and my pancakes end up as Santa’s gifts to children on the naughty list. The first time I ever cooked for Mike he ate dinner before he came over just in case. Last night, however, I spent two hours in the kitchen preparing a roast dinner (the first one I had ever cooked) while Mike (who actually can cook and talks to me about it whilst doing so like he’s Jamie Oliver talking to the camera) played Xbox and moaned about being hungry.

Was he left hungry? Well, miraculously, the chicken was properly cooked; the Yorkshire pudding was perhaps a little large and stodgy, so much so that we could only eat half the dinner, and the stuffing was slightly undercooked, but not a bad first attempt(?). Despite having done most of the washing-up whilst I was cooking Mike still moaned at finishing it. Bad move on my part really because I had to wash everything again this morning. It would seem that washing-up is somehow a multi-task?

This blog will be my diary of my shift from comfortable student who came home and watched Murder, She Wrote to a (sort of) housewife who now comes home and puts dinner on (though I am still a student). Keep updated!