The Pestilence of Housekeeping

Since being lamed by playing badminton in the wrong shoes (I refuse to believe this injury has anything to do with my skills at the sport and would rather place the blame on my attire), I've had no choice but to suspend regular cleaning in certain areas of the house. The living room is so thick with dust that anyone walking through it will leave a footprint on the maroon tiles, and if you plop down on the sofa or either of its matching armchairs, you are certain to stir up a small cyclone of dirt. I see a little mold building up in the toilet bowl and around the drain of the bathroom sink, but to save myself the strain of trying to clean up while standing on my left foot like a flamingo, I've chosen to wait till the mold has bloomed into alarming proportions before launching a half-hearted attack with Dutch Cleanser and a scrub brush. The glass top of the dining table is sticky with water spots and microscopic crumbs from the past 90-odd meals, and anyone taking a seat on the chairs that haven't been wiped down since mid-June is sure to leave behind a detailed imprint of his ass. (I use "his" but I have yet to offer a seat in this house to a man). My clothes hamper is bursting at the seams, and it would not surprise me if there is some spawning going on in the crotches and armholes of my dirty laundry.
My bedroom is the only place that has been recently cleaned (and by that I mean two weeks ago). Took me fifteen minutes to drag the vacuum cleaner up the 14-step stairway, and two days to eradicate the dust, section by section. I think it might've contributed to the ankle relapse, but at least there's one place in this house where I'm not sneezing my nose off my face.