It's no holidays for ISABEL MORTON. She's cleaning up

I DON’T want to hear one more person tell me about their wonderful holiday plans, nor do I want to receive one more glossy postcard from far-flung sunny places. And while I’m on the subject, I dont want to see anybody for at least three weeks after they’ve returned home or at least until their tan has faded.

I’m home for the summer (i.e. working flat out and not even escaping to west Cork for a weekend) and with northern winds making the weather far from summery, I’d become virtually hysterical at the prospect. I’m prone to becoming hysterical and invariably, it results in a whirlwind attack on whatever happens to be top of my to do list.

So, a mug of coffee, notebook and pen in hand, I made a tour of inspection of our house and garden at 6.20am one morning and quickly realised that I’d have to divide up my lengthy list into emergency, important and asap categories.

By 7am, my husband woke to find me writing copious notes and talking to myself about having to bring in industrial cleaners and hire every unemployed builder in Ireland, in order to save what was left of our home from disintegration, due to complete neglect.

Ignoring me, he stumbled down the stairs for breakfast, leaving me to rant and rave on about dripping taps, flaking paint and various other signs of household wear and tear. Leaning over the banisters, I screeched down at him about having only six weeks of summer left before we’d be in September again, facing into yet another cold, dark winter, not conducive to getting anything done.

Looking around upstairs, I felt there wasn’t much difference between work and home these days, as it all needed attention. I listed the bits and pieces required to be done in each bedroom, including irritating little things like replacing curtain hooks, cords on blinds and handles on drawers, as well as taking note of areas which could do with a fresh coat of paint.

Then there was my own wardrobe to clear out and my dressing table drawer, which hides an endless supply of war paint, lotions and potions, some of which have either evaporated or turned to concrete. And bags of baby items which no longer look so cute and appealing after two or three decades in storage.

And bed linen that should have their tags marked with “s” “k” and “d” so I can quickly differentiate between superking, king and double, to avoid having to battle with the wrong-sized sheets when making up beds.

Bathrooms of course, always appear to be in need of attention; re-grouting the tiles, re-doing the silicone seals around showers, replacing wayward loo seats or re-fixing towel rails to the wall. And that’s after youve cleared out a dozen nearly empty shampoo bottles, candles whose wicks have disappeared into the wax and towels which no longer resemble the pristine white they once were.

Downstairs in the reception rooms (so much for hosting anything, let alone a reception these days), I had to stop for another coffee to recover myself. The rooms looked as if they were stage sets for Sleeping Beauty , it’s been so long since they were used at all, let alone for entertaining. And the family room, commandeered some time ago by our younger son and rarely frequented by anyone else, resembles a mix between a jamming hideout and a storeroom in Ardmore Film Studios. Some rooms are best ignored, the door kept shut.

Another coffee consumed in my kitchen, which was in dire need of a revamp and a clear out, before a quick glance into the utility room and the garage, both of which were packed to the seams with stuff which “just might come in handy some day”, before starting on the number one item on my emergency list, the garden patio. Recognising the gleam of lunacy in my eyes, my family made themselves scarce.

So, while youre all sunning yourselves in far-flung places, think of me with my vacuum cleaner, paintbrush and power hose. However, unlike you, at least Ill be ready and prepared for yet another winter of discontent.

Isabel Morton is a property consultant