This is a Job For..Mr Muscle!

My flatmates and I have room inspections coming up in a couple of days. The last time we had room inspections all they did was look at our walls and our shower before swiftly leaving. This time it could be different. It’s only a matter of weeks until we all move out and they could be checking for any sort of damage they’d have to fix before the new people arrive. Therefore everything has to be perfect. The truth is the stereotype about university students is true, we are incredibly lazy and most of us have unruly bedrooms, so when a deadline like this looms it’s like a train has arrived at Panic Station, and people have been cleaning non stop. All day today I have listened to the sound of people taking out their rubbish and the sound of Henry the hoover whirring. I admit I don’t have the tidiest room, so I joined in with the mass hysteria. Luckily the big blue mark mum left on the wall is gone. 

I have spent a collective twenty four hours preening this place to as close to perfection as I can get it. Almost like it was when I first moved into the flat, only with a few extra items. I spent an hour putting away clothes into my wardrobe and then realising I don’t have enough space for my clothes. 

“You could get rid of some clothes?” The logic voice in my head reasoned. There were a lot of clothes I barely wore. But the inner hoarder in me cried Don’t be silly Phie. I just need a bigger wardrobe!” So I condensed two shelves of useless junk into one. Items of useless junk include:

1. Half of a broken mirror that I am convinced I might need at some point. 

2. A copy of the university prospectus, in case I need to read what the course I’m studying is actually about. 

3. The box that my mobile phone came in, because I store the user manual and the bit of plastic that held my sim card in it. 

4. Boxes from christmas and birthday presents, because for some reason it doesn’t make sense to throw away a pandora box that has a tiny little bracelet cushion with it. 

5. A blue plastic water container that only Bear Grylls will be seen with, just in case there’s ever an apocalypse and I need some water. 

Luckily, at the start of the year, mum gave me a box for me to file important documents into, so I took it and in went all the paper from the drawers that probably weren’t necessary but too important to be thrown out. Who knows, maybe one day that unclaimed scratch card will come in handy. Probably when the apocalypse happens and I need money, or a mini….or a holiday in the Carribean for two. 

With everything now in boxes, cabinets shelves and drawers my room looked decent, but I still hadn’t tidied my bathroom which is what I did today. I unloaded all manners of shampoos, body washes, toothpastes, and cleansers onto the floor and scrubbed down every tile in the room.

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Who knew you could have so many skin products. Apparently I also have four toothbrushes!

I had neglected to clean my shower for weeks, not because I was lazy- oddly enough- but because I didn’t know how to. I’m meant to be a fully fledged adult now who can do laundry and cook and clean showers, but the fact that I still eat fish fingers probably speaks volumes. I was armed only with Cif and a cloth and I spent an hour on my hands and knees scrubbing that shower until it was near spotless. Perhaps cleaning products will clean better if blood, sweat and tears were actual ingredients. It turns out cleaning a shower makes you sweaty and warm and proves a better work out them weights at the gym (though I don’t do weights at the gym so that probably explains why the shower was such a task), makes you cry when the little bit of limescale refuses to budge, and makes you bleed. I have probably ruined the joints in my fingers for all eternity. Not to mention the chemicals absorbed through my skin is probably enough to turn me into a mutant over-night. 

I may not know how to clean a shower, or put on a bed sheet, or how to use a washing machine (I seriously need a maid…or mum- though they probably have the same sort of job) but I do know that I am not put out to be a professional cleaner. And what I have learned over the years is that if I didn’t neglect my tidying duties so much out of laziness then I probably wouldn’t have had to make such a big job of it. Oh, but I do hate tidying. Where’s my maid?

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4 thoughts on “This is a Job For..Mr Muscle!

  1. At least when you tidy you know the only person whose going to mess it up is you. Try it with the added bonus of other people coming along and dumping all over it straight after.
    I’d be grateful if you could pass on your new-found skills to Eve when you’re back home and wanting somewhere to store your abundance of clothes.

  2. Feel free to give all of your old clothes to me! None of my trousers fit anymore and Jonathan is as tight fisted as Ian with money (I’m not allowed to buy chocolate mousses. But he’s allowed to buy world cup stickers. And trading cards. And magazines)!

  3. Pingback: Everything Needs to be Practically Perfect (in every way) | That's So Phie

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