WHEN I hit 50 I discovered the joys of the National Trust and garden centres and now as I career headlong towards another big birthday I find the peak of excitement comes with the purchase of a new vacuum cleaner.

When it arrived at the door a few weeks back I could hardly wait to test it out on the various floor surfaces through the house.

“How did you find the new Hoover,” I asked the housemate after a day or so.

“I don’t know. I haven’t tried it yet,” came the reply”

“Why not?” I asked momentarily forgetting the housemate’s strict adherence to her routine.

“It’s not Wednesday yet. I vacuum on a Wednesday,” she replied.

“But you could…” I began to suggested.

“ I vacuum on a Wednesday,” she snapped cutting me off mid sentence.

This week her routine was brought to an abrupt halt by a dramatic tumble up the garden path while visiting some friends for dinner.

“Do you think we should get that checked out?” I asked as we all gazed mournfully at the arm hanging uselessly by her side as we got her back to her feet.

“You think?” said our first aid trained friend, rolling her eyes at my ‘pop a bit of Savlon on it’ mentality.

With my hospital phobia in full swing it was left to the Plas Derwen Posse to take control.

Within moments of my 999 call to her The Mother was in full Casualty mode while the medically trained friend she was enjoying a quiet Saturday evening cuppa with, leapt into action phoning Nevill Hall to check the opening times of the MIU.

“Is the casualty conscious,” asked the nurse she spoke to.

“I don’t know I’m nowhere near her,” she replied much to the medic’s bemusement.

Two hours later the housemate and The Mother emerged from Nevill Hall strapped up and clutching a box of pain killers.

“She’s broken the bone at the top of her arm,” said The Mother.

“She won’t be able to do much for a good few weeks,” added in The Mother. “You’ll be doing all the cooking and cleaning and washing and ironing,” she added with a caring smile.

“And you let her do it,” she said turning to the housemate.

After a few days of the new regime we are starting to get into a rhythm despite much complaining from the housemate.

“What are you doing?” she asked earlier this week as I walked past with a pile of clothes in my arms.

“I’m putting some washing on,” I replied.

“It’s a new machine. You don’t know how to use it!”

“I think I can work out how to switch on a washing machine,” I said.

“But it’s not Monday,” she wailed.

“I know,” I answered. “And you can pick your feet up as well because I’m going to Hoover in a minute and it’s not Wednesday either!”

“This is more painful than my shoulder,” she snapped seeing her housekeeping routine flying out of the window. “When are you going to do the ironing…in the middle of the night sometime?”

I have a feeling this is going to be a very long six weeks for both of us…