abode - an ode

He says he only has nightmares at my house.

Which is fair enough, because even the fact that my landlord is coming over tomorrow to inspect the place hasn't inspired me to tidy.. That Matt will even sit, let alone sleep in here is testament to his devotion but still. Eventually his inner 'queer eye' is surely gonna snap and just burn this monstrosity down.

Although, if I could drive him to just burning the rubbish, that would save me a job.

Because of course, there is the fact that, with my bed being on the floor, everything is even more inclined to gravitate downwards. Y'know, Cup'a'Soup packets and the like. Even my lamp is on the floor, meaning that anything teetering above ground level (say, balanced on the desk) becomes a fire hazard. Like my teddy and bed companion of a decade - Floppy the bear - who made the ill advised move of falling from one to the other, thus scorching his ass and making me cry big baby tears.

There is this incredibly long list of reasons why I will never be a good mother and housewife.

The toilet brush, that was a good one as well. The brush bit actually fell off the stick bit whilst I was cleaning the loo, begging the immediate question - did it fall, was it pushed, or did something actually grab it and pull?

Note to self - make sure the poking device constructed out of used toilet rolls in order to chopstick said brush head out of toilet is in the bin-bin and not the kitchen bin. That would be gross, and questions would be asked.

And then the blue Bloo block I bought as an offering to appease the toilet beast, but then couldn't lift the cistern off to put it in so, having left the task to Christoph, grabbed it off the windowsill a day later to find it was... wet. And turning my hand blue. With what I can only assume in the long sleepless nights was toilet water.

Perhaps if I offer Mr Jones a cup of tea, he won't notice the fact that his old family home looks like it's been home to some kind of Greek beer orgy.

Then, of course, the fire damage - two net curtain holes and one scorched table to date.

Perhaps if I light one stick of incense for each fag I smoke with the window closed, the smells will balance out into zen-like scent of calm. Then again, think how many holes in surfaces that might cause...

I can get rid of the booze bottles, at least. That won't take more than ten... thirty minutes, yup, and I can hide the pizza boxes. And the only thing wrong with the bathroom is that the gigantic bar of Lush soap I got for Christmas is engaging in some kind of merging/Pagan hand fasting ceremony with the wall and the... other bars of soap.

Of course toiletries are a whole new issue. Where exactly are all the really embarassing ones? The Immacs and Veets or whatever they are, the razors and deodorants and spot cream and tampons and lady painkillers and empty pill packets and - oh! - the novelty inflatable boyfriend, where the hell is he?

Why is it the only mortifying thing I know the whereabouts of is the cystitis medicine the previous German occupant left behind that I've been saving for when Christoph's family come to visit from Munich? How is it I've only just realised how easily that joke could backfire on me?

More to the point, it's 11pm and I don't really know where all my underwear is.

Ok.

Clothes = wardrobe. Rubbish = bin. Books = bin. All dirty cutlery and crockery = ...bin. Miscellaneous - garden. (There was a mattress, street light and desk out there when we moved in, will a traffic cone really scream negligence?)

Perhaps I could just sleep in and come out in my pjs looking all bleary and confused and he'll feel so awkward he won't want to impose further by looking into my 'Primark vomiting into an ashtray' modern art spectacular boudoir. Although, then I'd have to explain Morning Matt, who'd also still be knocking about all bleary and confused. Morning Matt is different to Daytime Matt or even Evening Matt. Morning Matt scratches itself and tends to kiss people.

Hmm.

Of course what I want, what I really want to do is to answer the door in my £2 dressing gown, fake satin extravaganza with 'Fuck the Pain Away' by Peaches blasting simultaneously out of all three of our computers (while Craig and Christoph adjust studded dog collars and Matt snorts a line off a heap of dirty laundry on the stairs) blow a big cloud of cigarette smoke and say - may we help you?

But knowing my luck it'll turn out to be my parents and they'll notice that I haven't hoovered before anything else.