Wendigonians in da housework

Curtains in the machine. Other curtains in a neighbours machine. Champagne open, strawberries plated. Now that's what I call housework.

Now I've noticed the glass itself needs to be polished. It's a bit of a disgrace actually. If this flat was on the ground floor passers by would look askance.

Isn't that typical - I've just come in for a refill, and despite knowing a huge communal whites wash was taking place this very afternoon, my son has left a pair of white socks and a white t-shirt on the floor beside the washing machine. 'It was already on when I came through, what do you want me to do, open the door and flood the flat?'. "I'm not coming outside because you're out there" - my uncle posted him some car magazines from 1969 so that's probably what's appealing behind the closed door for the time being.

It's bad enough that he possesses white socks - I think they're aesthetic abominations.

I did point out when the magazines arrived earlier* that for someone with an interest in vintage vehicles, he's never shown any inclination to clean mine. Pre lockdown I found him complaining on a school group chat that I'd forced him to scrub the whitewall tires with a toothbrush and a tube of Oral B 3D White Lux, in exchange for a corned beef sandwich. Technically true but as ever all context was lacking. He'd made himself sound like a martyred slave.

When I had my elderly gentleman fill the tank fully and place a baseball bat in the seatwell in case an escape to Bath through rampaging hordes of starving looters and dying plague victims became necessary, I had him bring it round for a final inspection. I couldn't help but notice that the finger strap that pulls the central armrest for the back seat into place had not been touched/was caked in filth, and the footrest carpets weren't vacuumed - there were still strips of Russian newsprint there.

It was this kind of carelessness the task was supposed to address. I didn't make a big deal of it at the time because I felt sorry for him not being able to see anyone for the foreseeable future. Now there are sports related items thrown on the kitchen floor.

*Containing also, a substantial correspondence on my uncles favoured thick baby pink writing papers, with fountain pen scrawl, always worth reading for the caustic b*st*rdry in each sentence - I wasn't allowed to read the letter because it wasn't addressed to me.

That's three now I come to think of it. The Bvlgari Hotel party he forgot to invite me to as he left the very property I was sitting in to see all of my living maternal relations while I watched God knows what to amuse myself, today the letter I can't look at, and then the fact I wasn't informed of the new password to the family 'Gunt Files'* - snatched pictures of the grossly overweight taken by my uncle and his partner, and a few other intrepid relations, divided into sub categories - supermarkets, public transport, dining establishments, waiting rooms, etc. I had to specifically ask for the new password to see the new lockdown collection, which I'd only heard about.

*Other files too. 'Vandalized by Double Glazing' is also a substantial category of its own, sub categories include Art Deco, Edwardian, Italianate, etc.

My god, it's a wonder we aren't all dead - I've just come across a certificate regarding the boiler - 'DO NOT USE - IMMEDIATE DANGER' - dated October 2018. I'll have to call them.

I was looking for paperwork I asked begged S to see, concerning a case he was working on. A sensitive adoption, with non willing biological parents. Not only should it not have been printed off, it should not have been removed from his office, and should never have been shown to me, let alone left in my care.

It's got everything up to and including the names, birth origins, known medical facts, death details, criminal, tax, immigration status as relevant - back to the great grandparents of this unfortunate pair, and the same for the chosen receiving couple.

I've lost it

Maybe I burned it. I don't think so. I'd remember. There've been no recent document or Polaroid burnings in the sink.

Well, that'll sort his worries about his earnings out - he won't have any.

Sh*t.

I'm sure I would've acted on that. I can only conclude that the lazy emo/proactive athlete I've raised was in when it was checked and I was out, and after doing something unnecessary but life dependent with his fringe, he's left it in his almost bottomless 'do it later' list. Says he's never seen it.

Now on hold to find out more - is 'Substitute' classed as soft 70's pop rock? Should be out in the rubbish with white dog sh*t and camel coloured Austin Princesses.

To have potentially blown someone's career to pieces, shattered an intricate adoption into pieces, and almost killed half the neighbourhood - all quite by accident - is quite something even by my own standards.

Someone is coming as a priority - even considering our current public health limbo. They'll call to arrange time and agree distancing measures tomorrow. What a relief.

A strong Newcastle accent there. Always more attractive on a man than a woman, but she was very nice all the same. There's something sexy about Geordies isn't there?

The last person who throttled someone on my behalf was a Geordie. I didn't ask him to, did it off his own back, in the alley, no regard of reward - happened to be gay.

It'll be quite some time before I'll be able to buy a northern knight a Blue WKD of thanks, plus one for myself, and have a scroll through his Grindr to fix him up with a nice southern fairy to appreciate all that industrial energy.

I feel a little bit horrid. The new woman through the way is absolutely adorable (the buildings are connected in labrynthe ways for fire escape reasons and her very friendly miniature dog bounded up to my door to say hello).

She's not a hooker, she's a film producer, and is planning on having neighbourhood exclusive showings with a selection of drink and drugs and vegan finger foods when safe to do so.

She did mention she'd broken lockdown herself quite a few times, and I said I'd very much heard that enviously through the wall during a dry spell in this residence. I'll show her the leak/damage another time, it didn't seem fair in a flurry of introduction.

cosmictanya wrote:Now on hold to find out more - is 'Substitute' classed as soft 70's pop rock?

Is that the one by Clout or the one by The Who?
I'd say the one by Clout is 1970s Pop. I'd say the one by The Who is 1960s Mod/Rock.

It must be Clout, I'd have recognized The Who and wondered what they were doing. I'll be your substitute, whenever you want me. I should remember the rest because I heard it several times but it's not coming to mind. Just the jaunty tune.

A happy update - my voile panels are looking brilliant. Sadly, a white muslin drape was caught up in the middle of those, and looks orange in comparison. I presume synthetics on 60c is the reason it looks like something from Steptoe's yard. I don't have much use for the synthetics setting, so it was all a bit of a puzzle.

It's a bit late now to put the machine on again. I know people do - I nearly came to blows with a couple of Irish girls in the flat above me in Bristol. They seemed to be under the impression that as quid pro quo for their terror when a Brazilian drug dealer visited in the middle of the night, I had got the better end of things.

That brought me nicely on to thanking them for their total self involvement and lack of assistance as he battered down my door, shouted my name on a loop, while my flatmate rang round some nearby rugby players (couldn't really dial 999 for obvious reasons), while I stood poised with a frying pan, wearing nothing but a very old faded Fido Dido t-shirt*, a pair of briefs, and one false eyelash that had become totally stuck - after I was sprayed by a foam cannon in a terrible nightclub on my way back from the bar.

So I never do. I live like a church mouse. I'll do it in the morning at a more respectable time.

*Im sure I spoke about head sizes somewhere here recently. Does anyone else have the situation of tops you have to really try a few times, easing and teasing and pausing and breathing - using midwifery techniques, which are perfectly fitting once on?

I only realised Fido Dido was a thing when I read an article about Timothee Chalamet fashions. I was thrilled to discover that not only is he a cult fan, but that it was very Manhattan about ten years before he was born, when I had several. And one adult size, left over, all those years later. It was always a struggle to pull it on.

Another load of whites on, with what I thought was a glowhite that had fallen out of its box. I've now noticed that box was unopened, and it was likely a sachet of cup-a-soup (a couple of others with no box are in the same place) that went in with that lot. We'll see how that turns out in a couple of hours.

Not too bad. Needs to be done again, and the mix of Fairy and chicken soup powder is a strange scent but nothing ruined. I forgot about the ironing of all these things.

That's now the third time that particular curtain has been washed at 90c with glowhite. I can still see a slightly darkened line of roughly a foot in length, right along the middle, precisely at the level of the open window it usually sits in front of. I should send the bill to the Department of Transport or whoever is responsible for pollution.

The only time my sashes are ever closed is when they are slammed down to emphasise a point just made.

I can't stop looking over at my windows in admiration. All curtains are now as pure white as the driven snow, and are making the paintwork look like custard in comparison.

I think in all the curtain related excitement over the last few days, I might venture out into taking other people's whitewash laundry in. I seem to have a knack for it, and it could bring in funds.