That's it. I've downed duster. Oose is now an art form. Domestic gods and goddesses the land over - well, the ones who rarely find time to Duraglit their halos - will be delighted to hear that artist Catherine Bertola has taken the dust sooked up at London's Victoria and Albert Museum and turned it into art as part of an exhibition to celebrate the opening of the museum's new contemporary space this week.

When I say art, I should explain that, actually, it's wallpaper. Fancy wallpaper, right enough, made of intricately pasted-on dust based on a pattern that hung in the gallery at the turn of the century designed by William Morris, yon chap who liked to create flowery stuff even Laura Ashley - flounce as she might - can't match. The wallpaper design in question is called Marigold, but it's not clear if this is a direct reference to rubber gloves.

I can see where Bertola's coming from, and I like her thinking. She explains: "Dust collects over time and within it there's a history of the place, the poetic sense of what it represents."

Poetic, indeed. In this age of recycling it makes perfect sense to repurpose dust. Allergy sufferers might turn up their noses at the idea. Detractors of modern art will sniff. But it serves to cement such ground-breaking work in our culture.

Just look at the opportunities for artistic outpouring that have opened up. We've seen untidy teenagers wake up to the beauty of Tracey Emin's Turner Prize-shortlisted unmade bed; taxidermists have basked in the glory of Damien Hirst's pickled shark; brickies found empathy in Carl Andre's Equivalent VIII (aka The Bricks) on which London's Tate Gallery built controversy in 1972, recognised their inner arty selves and put their rates up.

But in a world where dust - and wallpaper - count as art, there are exciting possibilities. It puts a whole new sheen on things, and I for one will be looking afresh at the everyday objets d'art that lie hidden at home, under beds, behind curtains, at the back of the fridge.

No more Mundane Mondays Of Domestic Drudgery. Instead I'll see the beauty in the bog-brush, delight at the majestic lines in the stack of unwashed pots, gasp in awe at the burnt-on stains and admire, not scrub. Ironing will get 10 out of 10 for artistic impression.

That patch of woodchip picked off by exploring, three-year-old fingers has taken on a new significance as a priceless example of our son's creativity. No more need to fret about decorating. And no more windows to wash. That bird poo, I now see, is a study on the power of nature over mankind. And it's already framed.

I will also try to appreciate the art of others. There's Other Half's long-standing project - Shed In Bits, 2007-?? - an all-consuming work which might one day be a collector's item. Meanwhile our son is beavering away on Comics And Books: An Installation. This renders his bedroom carpet barely visible, but makes hoovering unnecessary, encouraging plenty of dust for future exhibits. And I will now see from a new perspective those sweaty football socks, balled up inside out.

I might even go a step farther in my quest for a household masterpiece and become a part of the art myself. So that's my plan for tomorrow. I think I'll call it something like Woman Reclines On A Sofa Surveying Domestic Chaos; or maybe Still Life With Good Book.