Climb every mountain...
Words from a Bird. Day 14
As my ankle biters wend their merry ways back to university and work after the Christmas break (their break, definitely not mine), I have gradually pulled my house into some semblance of normality. No longer will I find the odd power cable snaking across the lounge floor, just waiting for me to come in with a cup of tea. (This is the 21st century version of the bucket of water on the top of the door trick - works every time). There are no more half drunk cans of coke littering windowsills and that useful area under the bed, you know the one, us adults call it 'the floor'. Carpet becomes visible again after the southerly migration of odd socks to the washing machine (they make their own way down the stairs like a long line of lemmings) and there tends to be food in the fridge once more.
It was with trepidation therefore, that today I girded my loins and headed into son number 2's bedroom. I had left his one till last, as I had naively assumed that he would have done some element of tidying up since last year as he still lives at home.
Nope.....he is obviously not concerned in the slightest about using clamp-ons and a mountaineering pick to scale the piles of detritus standing between the door and his bed. The cobwebs hanging down from every corner, and dust bunnies on the windowsill and every single flat surface are not a worry either. Looking at it from the doorway, I assumed this was what Walt Disney was picturing when he designed The Haunted House in Orlando.
Looking at my duster, polish and small carrier bag, I decided that this was not going to be man enough for this particular job. Returning with bleach, Marigolds, a face mask and a roll of black bin liners, my trousers tucked in my socks, I said what I normally say on these occasions. 'I'm going in'.
For once, I found nothing that would make my eyebrows shoot off the top of my head. In the past, I have discovered things which have triggered questions such as 'What does he do with that?' or 'Why is he buying those?', or on rare occasions, 'Why didn't he ask me first?' and even rarer, 'What the hell is that?'
So nothing exciting to report, which I suppose is a good thing. Either that or he is paying the dust bunnies to hide things for him....
As my ankle biters wend their merry ways back to university and work after the Christmas break (their break, definitely not mine), I have gradually pulled my house into some semblance of normality. No longer will I find the odd power cable snaking across the lounge floor, just waiting for me to come in with a cup of tea. (This is the 21st century version of the bucket of water on the top of the door trick - works every time). There are no more half drunk cans of coke littering windowsills and that useful area under the bed, you know the one, us adults call it 'the floor'. Carpet becomes visible again after the southerly migration of odd socks to the washing machine (they make their own way down the stairs like a long line of lemmings) and there tends to be food in the fridge once more.
It was with trepidation therefore, that today I girded my loins and headed into son number 2's bedroom. I had left his one till last, as I had naively assumed that he would have done some element of tidying up since last year as he still lives at home.
Nope.....he is obviously not concerned in the slightest about using clamp-ons and a mountaineering pick to scale the piles of detritus standing between the door and his bed. The cobwebs hanging down from every corner, and dust bunnies on the windowsill and every single flat surface are not a worry either. Looking at it from the doorway, I assumed this was what Walt Disney was picturing when he designed The Haunted House in Orlando.
Looking at my duster, polish and small carrier bag, I decided that this was not going to be man enough for this particular job. Returning with bleach, Marigolds, a face mask and a roll of black bin liners, my trousers tucked in my socks, I said what I normally say on these occasions. 'I'm going in'.
For once, I found nothing that would make my eyebrows shoot off the top of my head. In the past, I have discovered things which have triggered questions such as 'What does he do with that?' or 'Why is he buying those?', or on rare occasions, 'Why didn't he ask me first?' and even rarer, 'What the hell is that?'
So nothing exciting to report, which I suppose is a good thing. Either that or he is paying the dust bunnies to hide things for him....
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