1. I would rather get down on my hands and knees and pick up each individual mote of dust than use a hoover. I fear the hoover. Even the dustpan is preferable to the hoover. (That, incidentally, could be my version of "The pen is mightier than the sword", couldn't it). Which is good, since I haven't bought a hoover yet. Does a hoover exist that I won't be terrified of? Can I really bring myself to spend money on one? Tune in for the next thrilling installment, possibly in mid 2010.
2. The downstairs loo obviously contains the rotting corpse of a durian fruit, family of skunks, or similar. I have poured several bottles of various household poisons down there to no avail. Something has died in there and it seems to be something bigger and nastier than me. I am just deciding to never open the door again. If you ever visit, do not go there. Do not even ask what happens behind that door. It's my "something nasty in the woodshed" room.
3. The washing machine claims it has "E14" and will not go past the first minute of any given cycle. I am contemplating the following solutions:
- Maybe take out that filtery bit at the bottom and shake it around.
- Fiddle around with the tap thing in the cupboard in case the water isn't on (long shot).
- Sitting on the floor and crying (almost certain).
- Kicking it.
- Going to the launderette.
I will take other suggestions.
4. Having emptied only the kitchen boxes, I have no compulsion to ever look at, or touch any of the other ones. Fuck it. There is a gigantic empty box that I am thinking of turning into a feature. It is too large to crush, and the perfect size for sitting in after a particularly self-pitying day. Alternatively, I could fill it with owls.
5. I have a ladder with a name. The ladder is called Iris. I know this because it is carved into her ancient wood. Iris is 5 metres high. I am slightly in love with her, but also a little scared. She is awe-inspiring, but also rather rickety. I like climbing ladders though, so I am fine with it. She brings a little frisson into my life. It's carrying her around that causes problems - I have caused several hideous dents in the salmon paintwork.
6. Belgacom remain useless, feckless, pointless bastards (that's two Cold Comfort references in one post, I realise. It's that kind of day. Wet, muddy). Without the interwebs at my disposal I note:
- the house is cleaner;
- I am cooking meals, some of them even involving CHOPPING STUFF. I chopped an onion yesterday, an activity I haven't indulged in for, oooh, probably a good year. It was crap, but it tasted good. This is a dangerous departure.
- I am watching far too much hospital drama.
I am not sure what to make of this.
7. I am getting salmon Stockholm syndrome. It's still hideous but I feel oddly protective of it. I wonder if it gives me a dewy glow, Mariah Carey styley?
8. I have a pathetic girlie compulsion to have lots of fairy lights and quilts. I know it's wrong, beyond the pale and terribly 1998. But, well, you know. This is my first sole residence in 15 years. It is little wonder that my interior decoration desires are a little dated. I'm surprised I haven't moved into an empty loft with only a clothes rail and a load of Smiths posters and black and white photography.
9. Although the basic flatpack and Allen key now hold no fear for me, I continue to be foxed by the mysterious workings of the ratchet screwdriver. What? How? It's entirely beyond me. Probably no point in trying to explain. I think I'm just missing that part of my brain.
10. I really, really, really like it. So that's good.