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There was once a woman who was extremely preoccupied with her home. To say that she was ‘house proud’ is an under-statement. Of herself she said she had high standards; she took great care to make sure that things were just-so.

Like any home there were the inevitable scuffs and marks, generally so slight that most people wouldn’t even notice them. But in each case she saw imperfection that had to be corrected quickly.

With what she saw as persistent problems around the house she’d been known to consult many experts and try all sorts of remedies, generally to no avail.

In such cases, when the blemish remained visible for more than a day to two, her mood became sombre and withdrawn. She would act overly protectively towards her home, and few were allowed in; some said she treated it like a shrine.

She was so absorbed with domestic perfection that she failed to see much beyond the four walls of the house. Of course this meant that she had little conversation and few real friends (if you discount the experts she regularly consulted).

Sadly she died without ever have reached the state of domestic perfection she sought.

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