I walked downstairs this morning, looked around and heaved a big sigh and declared the house, particularly the kitchen a pigsty.
Since then Rye has kept coming up to me, pointing to the kitchen and saying, "Ohhh mumeee, kitchen, pigsty"
The lounge is tidied, even washed the suite down, including the footstool that had got caked in dried on porriage (Rye's attempt at cleaning it up was to smear it all over the place).
I am about to tackle the pigsty...
Oh and I really must stop saying "bugger" because Rye has started copying me. Oops!