I will un-ashamedly admit I am not a house cleaner.  There is very little about housework I find remotely satisfying or enjoyable.  My preferred way to keep my house clean is to contain the mess.  If the mess is in one place then only one place needs to be cleaned.

The one household chore I do like to do is hanging out the laundry.  There is the lovely physicality of pulling the wet laundry out of the machine and hauling the heavy, full hampers outside.  I have to stand on a table to get the laundry onto the line, because of this I can see over my fence and view my yard from a different perspective.  Then there is the bend, lift, and pin rhythm of selecting the articles of clothing, straightening them out, and clipping them onto the line.  There is some linear problem solving involved as my one line goes over my driveway and the other is over my garden.  When there is a vehicle in the driveway I have to hang the clothes so that they will go over it and not hang against it.  I like watching as the line gradually fills and the clothes hamper gradually empties.  When I am finished I find there is an aesthetic to the colour and shapes of the flapping laundry.  It is like constructing a temporary outdoor art installation disguised as a mundane, everyday occurrence.  My quirk is that I do not hang the socks and underwear on the line.  Those articles are relegated to the rack.  Not because of any sense of propriety or bashfulness, but because they mess up the finished appearance.