**The Logic of a Woman**
One evening, Edward returned from work exhausted—long meetings, endless problems, but at least it was Friday. Tomorrow, he could rest.
“At least I’ll catch up on sleep. What a gruelling week,” he muttered, collapsing into bed, while his wife, Eleanor, gave him a knowing look.
Recognising that glint in her eye, Edward groaned, “Ellie, let me sleep in tomorrow. I know what you’re like…”
Edward and Eleanor had been married eleven years, their son, Oliver, was nine. Both had demanding careers—Eleanor ran a small but respected firm, while Edward held a prestigious position with a handsome salary.
Saturday mornings in their home always began the same way: cleaning. Rain or shine, holiday or not. If Saturday was a workday, then Sunday. Eleanor was fastidious to a fault. On one hand, Edward appreciated her standards—on the other, her unrelenting tidying robbed them all of peace on their day off. She wouldn’t rest, nor let anyone else, until the house was spotless.
Whenever the subject arose, Edward would protest, “I’m hardly a slob. My socks are always paired, I don’t leave dishes piled up, and my laundry goes straight into the hamper. I’d say I’m quite tidy.” But Eleanor disagreed.
That Saturday, Eleanor woke at her usual hour, though she lingered in bed a little longer—no need to rush. She mentally mapped out the day’s tasks.
“Fine, let him sleep an extra hour—but no more. Left alone, he’d lie in till noon,” she mused.
Edward, half-asleep, heard her voice: “Come on, up you get. Breakfast first, then cleaning. The house is a mess—dust everywhere.”
“Ellieee, just let me sleep. It’s been a long week,” he grumbled, knowing further rest was hopeless.
Yet every Saturday began this way.
“Edward, you’ll sleep better in a clean room,” she replied firmly before heading to Oliver’s room.
“Oliver, this includes you. Breakfast, then tidying. Gather your toy soldiers and planes—unless you’d prefer I do it.”
That was Oliver’s worst fear—his mother “organising” his toys. A cry soon followed:
“Mum! You ruined my fort! My ambush of six soldiers—gone!”
“And why is your blanket on the floor?”
“It’s not a blanket,” Oliver retorted. “It’s a hangar for my secret airfield.”
“Just tidy up. Toys everywhere,” Eleanor sighed.
So every Saturday, Edward and Oliver endured the same routine—grumbling but obedient.
“Mum, maybe we could play first, then clean?” Oliver suggested hopefully.
“No ‘later.’ I know you two—breakfast, clean, then we’ll see.”
Eleanor headed to the kitchen, but her voice soon carried back: “Stop yowling! I just fed you.”
Their grey-and-white cat, Whiskers, twined around her legs, mewing for treats.
Their two-storey home was modest but comfortable. Yet by week’s end, dust and clutter piled up. Evenings were for unwinding, not scrubbing—Oliver certainly wouldn’t lift a finger. Summer meant sand tracked in, cat hair everywhere. Saturdays were for setting things right.
Edward dragged himself up—no chance of more sleep, and hunger gnawed at him. He found Eleanor and Oliver already at breakfast.
“Blimey, love, you’ve outdone yourself—pancakes?” He kissed the top of her head.
“While some of us laze about.”
“Dad, come eat while they’re warm!” Oliver grinned.
Truth be told, Eleanor hadn’t woken him too early—it was nearly nine.
“Right, my lads—breakfast, cleaning, then what?” Eleanor asked, smiling.
Edward sighed. “Then the supermarket run.”
“Exactly. Well done.”
This was their ritual—once the house gleamed, they’d stock up for the week, all three of them. Edward didn’t mind the chores, but he begrudged the lost hours.
Today, even Oliver tidied without fuss, stashing clothes and “organising” his toys—his way. When the house finally sparkled, Eleanor exhaled in satisfaction.
“Nothing like order and cleanliness.”
“Agreed,” Edward said, stashing the hoover under the stairs.
“Now, rest, then shopping. I’ve made the list. Ready, Eddie?” He nodded—always ready.
Settling beside her, inspiration struck—though he kept it to himself.
*What if we hired a cleaner?* Not some “cleaning operative,” just someone with a mop. He’d research options later.
They returned from the shops laden with groceries—Oliver thrilled with his sweets. Whiskers greeted them eagerly, likely hoping for treats.
Edward fetched his laptop, scanned reviews, then steeled himself for the inevitable clash. Eleanor would never allow a stranger into her domain.
“Ellie,” he began carefully, “hear me out before you object. Deal?”
Her bright eyes darkened with suspicion. “What have you concocted now?”
“What if we hired a cleaner? She’d handle the mess, we’d save time—for a fee…” He braced for outrage.
“So I’m redundant now? Next you’ll hire a chef and a—” Her tirade continued as Edward waited patiently.
“Ellie, just listen.” He flipped open his notes. “We waste two hours weekly—over a hundred a year. Imagine what we could do with that time.”
She paused. As a businesswoman, she understood efficiency.
Oliver, eavesdropping, chimed in: “A hundred hours? Really?”
“More,” Edward said.
Eleanor’s expression shifted. Her office employed cleaners—why not home?
“Perhaps you’re right,” she conceded. “But how much?”
Edward quoted the sum he’d tallied. “Ellie, we’d gain time for each other, Oliver, even Whiskers.”
The cat, as if comprehending, flicked his tail.
Oliver beamed. Edward held his breath.
Eleanor sighed. “Fine. We’ll try it. If it doesn’t suit, we’ll stop.”
Oliver cheered. Whiskers purred. Edward kissed her cheek.
The following week was hectic—late nights, no tidying. By Saturday, the house was a shambles: dust, laundry piled high.
When Eleanor marched in, Edward groaned, “Ellie, we’re not cleaning today—remember?”
She stared at him, aghast. “We can’t have strangers seeing this mess!”
They locked eyes—then burst out laughing. Oliver rushed in, bewildered.
Still chuckling, Edward shook his head. “Ellie, you never change.”
