I hate cleaning. I don't hate cleanliness, but the tidying and the cleaning - nah, that's a pain. I think I resent it most because I always leave it to the last minute, so not only is the activity frustrating, but it is compounded by a lingering sense of guilt that I should've already done this, and especially that I should do this as I go along and then wouldn't end up in this situation.
Inevitably this state of mind is exploded by some catastrophe at this point - such as the agony of a stubbed toe, the calamity of dropped washing, the last straw of a foot in the cat bowl! All this is generally enough to ignite me from a normally laissez-faire apporach to housework into a full-on firework of hygiene perfection.
I find myself cleaning places I have come to think of as contained ecosystems, breaking the sancity of grime in order to establish my colonial bleach as viceroy over the territory. Not only that but I become a parody of a Camp Commandant, stamping about the house alternately muttering and bellowing about why things haven't been moved, or why I always have to do certain jobs (Knowing full well that there are many, many jobs that I never do, that's not the point however - I always take the bin out, which is much worse... ahem.)?
The act of tidying and clean always stimulates my primate brain, and the act becomes territorial - at once about outside impressions, but at a deeper level about marking out the boundaies of my dwelling. It is odd to think that hoovering and polishing is in many ways the human equivalent of flinging faeces around to establish scent. A side effect of this is a strange resentment that grows if other people don't realise the clearly regimented domestic system that is established in the house (and changed each time we go through this process - after all you don't expect me to keep to it, do you?). Leading to the bizarre situation of my affront at the misplacement of a plate in the cupboard; a plate that would normally consider its home to be a subterranean cavern at the bottom of the sink.
Such diplomatic incidents are normally rectified by a swift interaction to replace the offending item - often in the hope that the demonstration of the error will correct future mistakes.
Having established that the interlopers are not a threat, however, this behaviour is revealed all too clearly as ridiculous. At which point my sparks falls to the ground and my inner sloth re-emerges and allows me to relax about the situation... a little too much for my wife's liking. Thus I lie, knowing the inevitable chaos that will occur at the next nearing of a pack or pride, but happy in my state of squalor.