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So, I'm back at Grimmauld Place. 
Mum's away for a week, and I'm here catsitting. Maisie usually leaves the house in a raging sulk when Mum's away, but it's been pissing with rain here so she's lurking malevolently in her little den in Mum's wardrobe on the sock shelf, muttering rude remarks about me and the dogs and ungratefully eating everything I put in front of her. I'm also supposed to be cleaning. I haven't got very far yet, because the whole place is so crusty, disgusting and stuffed to the gills with crap and shite that I just don't know where to start.
Honestly, you wouldn't believe it if you didn't see it. It doesn't need a cleaner, it needs a fucking blowtorch and a wrecking ball. It's scary. I spent nine months living in an abandoned, burnt-out hotel once, with an itinerant collection of homeless junkies, whores, alkies and four dogs, and I swear to Dog even that wasn't as bad.
Well, maybe it was. But still. I had to clean the bathroom a little yesterday before I could bear to have a piss or a shower, then I had to throw away four bottles of body lotion (which I think used to belong to Auntie Sue, now dead these ten years) before I found one that wasn't too rancid to moisturise with.
How long do you have to keep Vaseline before it turns brown with age and smells funny? And wouldn't any normal person throw it away when it reached that point? There are tubes of stuff in the medicine cupboard that used to live in my grandmother's medicine cupboard, and she died seven-odd years ago... some of that shit is older than I am. I sympathise a little, because I inherited those pack rat genes myself - but this is bad even by my standards.
If I don't make any more entries after this, you'll know that the clotted hair in the bathroom sink was galvanised into life by the chemicals in the drain cleaner and crawled out and ate me. Either that, or Lord Lucan knocked me on the head when I surprised him hiding in the cupboard where the cleaning supplies live... because that sure as shit hasn't been opened for a while...
Mum's away for a week, and I'm here catsitting. Maisie usually leaves the house in a raging sulk when Mum's away, but it's been pissing with rain here so she's lurking malevolently in her little den in Mum's wardrobe on the sock shelf, muttering rude remarks about me and the dogs and ungratefully eating everything I put in front of her. I'm also supposed to be cleaning. I haven't got very far yet, because the whole place is so crusty, disgusting and stuffed to the gills with crap and shite that I just don't know where to start.
Honestly, you wouldn't believe it if you didn't see it. It doesn't need a cleaner, it needs a fucking blowtorch and a wrecking ball. It's scary. I spent nine months living in an abandoned, burnt-out hotel once, with an itinerant collection of homeless junkies, whores, alkies and four dogs, and I swear to Dog even that wasn't as bad.
Well, maybe it was. But still. I had to clean the bathroom a little yesterday before I could bear to have a piss or a shower, then I had to throw away four bottles of body lotion (which I think used to belong to Auntie Sue, now dead these ten years) before I found one that wasn't too rancid to moisturise with.
How long do you have to keep Vaseline before it turns brown with age and smells funny? And wouldn't any normal person throw it away when it reached that point? There are tubes of stuff in the medicine cupboard that used to live in my grandmother's medicine cupboard, and she died seven-odd years ago... some of that shit is older than I am. I sympathise a little, because I inherited those pack rat genes myself - but this is bad even by my standards.
If I don't make any more entries after this, you'll know that the clotted hair in the bathroom sink was galvanised into life by the chemicals in the drain cleaner and crawled out and ate me. Either that, or Lord Lucan knocked me on the head when I surprised him hiding in the cupboard where the cleaning supplies live... because that sure as shit hasn't been opened for a while...
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