A Quote by Joe Wicks

My mum loved housework, she basically had OCD. — © Joe Wicks
My mum loved housework, she basically had OCD.
When I was eight, my mum found me humming to myself and scribbling on a scrap of paper. When she asked me what I was doing, I got shy. I was writing a Christmas song, and I had never shared my music with anyone before. Reluctantly, I sang it for her... and she loved it. Of course she did - she's my mum.
Even when my mum used to edit the paper she would come home, put us to bed and then go back to the office. She must have been exhausted. She worked on Sunday papers so I always had her on Mondays. I loved Mondays! She would always be waiting for me outside school. I remember feeling very loved.
At a personal level, it's just the day-to-day: I'm a mum that needs to meet all of the responsibilities that come with being a mum, making sure that Neve has the basics, that she's fed, that she's loved, that she sleeps as much as we're able to get her to sleep, and we will do that together. That's a practical reality of my new role.
Nanny Ogg never did any housework herself, but she was the cause of housework in other people.
I have a friend who loves housework. Honest, she loves all housework. All day long she moves from one chore to the next, smiling the whole time. I went over there one day and begged her to tell me her secret. It's simple, she said, right after breakfast you light up a joint.
I went to boarding school in Somerset and loved it so much that my teachers had to make me phone home when I first got there. Whenever I spoke to my mum, at the end of the call I would say, 'Love you, Mum', and she would say, 'Love you the most.'
Alone because love was one of those feelings that you could never have control of. And she needed to be in control. She had loved before, had been loved, had tasted what it was to dream, and had felt what it was to dance on air. She had also learned what it was to cruelly land back on the earth with a thud.
When I was about 4, my mum had a lime-green Versace jacket with massive shoulder pads, and I remember thinking, 'Why does her head look so small? Why is she doing that to herself?' But she loved it!
She had witnessed the world's most beautiful things, and allowed herself to grow old and unlovely. She had felt the heat of a leviathan's roar, and the warmth within a cat's paw. She had conversed with the wind and had wiped soldier's tears. She had made people see, she'd seen herself in the sea. Butterflies had landed on her wrists, she had planted trees. She had loved, and let love go. So she smiled.
Only now that I'm a mum can I fully understand the terrible pressure parents feel buying presents for their kids. My mum had four children plus all of the extended family and she not only had to feed us all but she bought presents for everyone, too.
I was something of a surprise to my parents. My mum, Margaret, was 42 when she had me and had been told she couldn't have children. So when she went to the doctors, they thought she had an ovarian cyst. And it was me!
I didn't see my mum Julia for a few years - she was very young when she married my dad and had me, and when they parted I lived with my dad and my other 'mum,' his wife Diane.
My mum - and my granny and I - would close the curtains, turn on the TV and snuggle up and watch 'Come Dancing.' It was actually my granny who was the biggest fan; she loved the show, and she passed on her passion for it to me. I loved the dancing but also the frocks and the glamour.
She had grown older. And he loved her more now than he had loved her when he understood her better, when she was the product of her parents. What she was now was what she herself had decided to become.
My mum, Olwen, was a bright and talkative woman who loved a gossip and a story and was given slightly to malapropisms. And she was Welsh, so, of course, she sang.
I think housework is far more tiring and frightening than hunting is, no comparison, and yet after hunting we had eggs for tea and were made to rest for hours, but after housework people expect one to go on just as if nothing special had happened.
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