The unthinkable just happened. I’m taking the bin out - through the kitchen, through the living room, out onto the landing and downstairs. Upon my return from the wheelies I notice a trail of putrid, pungent potent matter in my wake.. Sweet Jesus. It then takes me an hour to get the gunk out of the carpet. I feel like Hansel or Gretel following the trail. Pieces of bread I wish it were, but BIN JUICE?! Trauma.
My housemate Dan shouted at me last night to stop moving his shoes. He’s a skater. I calmly stated my case. I don’t move them, I simply but them together, reunite them as a pair, and one is always on the other side of the room to the other. He told me he’s planning on bringing the contents of his room downstairs and dumping it all on my favourite easy-chair so I shut my gob. It reminds me of the time my friend Katy and her brother were having a full blown argument on the middle of Porthmeor beach. In front of everyone he shouts that she better watch out or he’ll creep into her room in the middle of the night and smear baked bean juice on her upper lip; that the smell will be the first thing to hit her when she awakes, probably contaminating her duvet and sheets throughout the restless night. She consequently shut the hell up. Everyone has their fears don’t they…?
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