How did he do it? Why does he do it?
Questions, questions; always questions.
The background to this is the bizarre, impractical and infuriating practise in this country of siting the laundry in the kitchen. Under the best possible circumstances ie, no one using a dish without immediately washing it, no one cooking without cleaning as they go, the filter of the cooker being in top-notch condition etc etc, it is hardly ideal.
When you live under the same roof as a world champion slob managing the washing can be next to impossible. For a start he'll fill the washing machine up, put it on, walk away and forget it. Three days later, if I've not taken his things out in the meantime, he'll come back and discover that the washed clothes now smell (surprise, surprise) and run them through again, then once more for good measure . He doesn't pay the water and electricity bills, you see.
If he does take the washing out of the machine he rarely does more than dump it on the kitchen bench beneath which the washing machine is sited. That's fair enough with stuff that isn't his, but unreasonable when its his own washing. Somehow the washing he's left piled up on the bench becomes invisible, at least to him; and it will sit there and sit there until it begins to smell and then he'll put it through the washing machine a couple of times to freshen it up.
At about this point he might finally haul it outside and hang it up... and it might stay there, on the line for weeks. And get crapped on by birds, leaked on by the fruit on the green gage tree, splashed by mud droplets sent flying during heavy downpours and bleached unevenly by sunlight.
What hasn't been rendered unwearable (ie, rotted away) will have to be put through the washing machine another couple of times to clean it up properly and freshen it up. The stuff that's blown off the line (because he has an antipathy towards clothes pegs) usually simply goes in the rubbish bin.
The upshot of this extravagant behaviour is that his clothes often pass through perhaps 7 cycles in the washing machine between wears. And did I mention that he doesn't pay the water or electricity bills?
Why the hell he does this is something I cannot begin to understand.
Recently I came home to discover a pile of my washing on the bench, placed there because he had some of his own to do.
Fine, fair enough. What was a problem was the curry-like globules all over the bench and down the front of the washing machine. In an even tone I asked him, as I cleared it up off the bench, the washing machine and the kitchen floor what it was. I got that tedious blank 'not me, guv' look he dons when he can't bear just giving me a straightforward and honest answer. I might well rip and tear and call him a lazy fuckwit. Much better to pretend that it had nothing to do with him. Well who was responsible? The seven year old?, the cat?, the goldfish?
The stuff, what ever it was, got everywhere it seemed and took me ages to clear up. A couple of garments had to go into the bin as they were stained. Then, today, with nothing better to do I rolled up my sleeves to clean the bathroom and the kitchen.
So I scrubbed and bleached and worked my way downstairs in my fit of housewifely virtue ... and came horribly unstuck when I reached the kitchen. I was planning to wash the walls and in looking around I happened to take a glance upward.
And there they are ... great globules of a curry-like substance in splashes across MY ceiling. Right now I can't face climbing up on a ladder and scrubbing the ceiling. I've cleaned up all the other traces of what ever explosion took place in MY kitchen and I'm feeling distinctly resentful that this last part of the clean-up too falls to me.
But more than that, now the heat of the moment has passed I just wish he'd tell me (assuming he can't explain why he tells these stupid fucking lies) quite what the fuck happened and how it happened.
The Fool from Philly is due very shortly now. No fucking wonder she's got cold feet about having him actually move over with her. Much easier to keep him on a long leash and available for occasional no-strings-attached week-end or week-long fuck-ins.
There, that feels better.
The background to this is the bizarre, impractical and infuriating practise in this country of siting the laundry in the kitchen. Under the best possible circumstances ie, no one using a dish without immediately washing it, no one cooking without cleaning as they go, the filter of the cooker being in top-notch condition etc etc, it is hardly ideal.
When you live under the same roof as a world champion slob managing the washing can be next to impossible. For a start he'll fill the washing machine up, put it on, walk away and forget it. Three days later, if I've not taken his things out in the meantime, he'll come back and discover that the washed clothes now smell (surprise, surprise) and run them through again, then once more for good measure . He doesn't pay the water and electricity bills, you see.
If he does take the washing out of the machine he rarely does more than dump it on the kitchen bench beneath which the washing machine is sited. That's fair enough with stuff that isn't his, but unreasonable when its his own washing. Somehow the washing he's left piled up on the bench becomes invisible, at least to him; and it will sit there and sit there until it begins to smell and then he'll put it through the washing machine a couple of times to freshen it up.
At about this point he might finally haul it outside and hang it up... and it might stay there, on the line for weeks. And get crapped on by birds, leaked on by the fruit on the green gage tree, splashed by mud droplets sent flying during heavy downpours and bleached unevenly by sunlight.
What hasn't been rendered unwearable (ie, rotted away) will have to be put through the washing machine another couple of times to clean it up properly and freshen it up. The stuff that's blown off the line (because he has an antipathy towards clothes pegs) usually simply goes in the rubbish bin.
The upshot of this extravagant behaviour is that his clothes often pass through perhaps 7 cycles in the washing machine between wears. And did I mention that he doesn't pay the water or electricity bills?
Why the hell he does this is something I cannot begin to understand.
Recently I came home to discover a pile of my washing on the bench, placed there because he had some of his own to do.
Fine, fair enough. What was a problem was the curry-like globules all over the bench and down the front of the washing machine. In an even tone I asked him, as I cleared it up off the bench, the washing machine and the kitchen floor what it was. I got that tedious blank 'not me, guv' look he dons when he can't bear just giving me a straightforward and honest answer. I might well rip and tear and call him a lazy fuckwit. Much better to pretend that it had nothing to do with him. Well who was responsible? The seven year old?, the cat?, the goldfish?
The stuff, what ever it was, got everywhere it seemed and took me ages to clear up. A couple of garments had to go into the bin as they were stained. Then, today, with nothing better to do I rolled up my sleeves to clean the bathroom and the kitchen.
So I scrubbed and bleached and worked my way downstairs in my fit of housewifely virtue ... and came horribly unstuck when I reached the kitchen. I was planning to wash the walls and in looking around I happened to take a glance upward.
And there they are ... great globules of a curry-like substance in splashes across MY ceiling. Right now I can't face climbing up on a ladder and scrubbing the ceiling. I've cleaned up all the other traces of what ever explosion took place in MY kitchen and I'm feeling distinctly resentful that this last part of the clean-up too falls to me.
But more than that, now the heat of the moment has passed I just wish he'd tell me (assuming he can't explain why he tells these stupid fucking lies) quite what the fuck happened and how it happened.
The Fool from Philly is due very shortly now. No fucking wonder she's got cold feet about having him actually move over with her. Much easier to keep him on a long leash and available for occasional no-strings-attached week-end or week-long fuck-ins.
There, that feels better.
posted by Enyo @ 12:42 pm
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