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Sunday means pack up and haul ourselves back into town after a weekend of fun on the farm.
Meh.
For those of you not intimately acquainted, my husband Humphrey is a shepherd. 
He lives on a bit of a plot about ninety hundred miles from everywhere and tends his sheep.  The Things and I lived out there too until our youngest was diagnosed with autism and we decided that in the best interests of him not turning into a strange hermit during his teens it would be prudent to get him into school - where he can learn more bad habits and anti social behaviours from other children.
The plot is too far out of town to commute daily so we squat in a derelict cottage during the week and hitch rides home on any passing camel trains each Friday. 
Ninety percent of the time this arrangement works perfectly well.  The Things and I get to spend a bit of time with Humphrey, and Humphrey gets his bathrooms cleaned, his laundry done and enough mutton roasted to keep him in sandwiches for a week.  Most of the time I don't mind slapping around a bit of Jaysol and using a chisel to remove soap scum and man grease from the shower cubicle, but filthy toilets just. make. me. yeeeeesh.
How in the name of Sweet Baby Jesus this man manages to crud up two toilets in one week is a mystery and horror worthy of Hitchcock.   What to Expect When You're Expecting, the Post Toddler Years did not inform me that owning boys would make it necessary to don a hazchem suit in order to hose out the toilet every two days.
It has also come to my attention that since I moved out all manner of mammal and insect has moved in.
The back verandah has been chewed to the rafters by termites and mice are nesting in the ceiling insulation, behind the fridge, in the wall cavity and the laundry basket.   Poison and traps are terribly effective, but Humphrey needs to remember to remove the bloated carcasses (and no Humphrey, plugging in the AmbiPur an hour before I'm due home does not mask the odour of slimey, decomposing mouse corpse).
The timbers on the back verandah are lurching precariously into next week and the guttering is guttering in name only.  Humphrey doesn't seem to notice. Men just don't rate things like...oh I don't know....creative decor, secondary colours and having a rain-proof roof.
In fact if I suggested we leave the homestead and pitch a tent he would probably be perfectly happy, provided he could bring the satellite dish in order to watch the AFL grandfinals.
God love him.