Wednesday, 11 August 2010

"The Manifold Uses of The Common Household Broom"

It's become abundantly clear that I'm going to need to put myself through some sort of 'domestic decompression chamber' before re-entering normal life in approximately six months time.  

Why do I say this?

Well take this morning for example.  The husband, searching for his least offensive smelling shirt to wear on our snorkelling trip today, happened to glance underneath the bed.

"You should check out  the two dead cockroaches under there."

"What?  Eew.  That's disgusting.  I don't understand why they don't clean our room here," I complained.

Gingerly I got out of bed (a raucous but amazing beachside dinner with our London mates last night ended with one greatly depleted duty free gin bottle and rather high spirits) and stepped over the detrius on the floor:  Mentos wrappers, dead flies, Ritz crackers crumbs, a dangly earring, etc.


A short while later, Egg came running up from the beach where I'd like to think he was collecting shells, but was more likely hanging out at the bar talking someones ear off.  He grabbed a broom from outside our door and went tearing off with it on some mission or another.  

Then it dawned on me that he had a broom in his hand.  And that the broom has been sat outside our door for the past six days.  And not once have I even thought to pick it up and use it.  

That part of my brain which when at home, automatically fills spare units of time with domestic tidying, as if on autopilot, is broken.  I mean, I definitely clocked the broom, and I most certainly knew it was there for someone to use it, but when I realised, around three days in, that there was no 'housekeeping' per se here at our bungalow, it never even occurred to me to use it myself.

I am ashamed.  What's happening to me?  How am I going to eventually handle going from a staff of three to a staff of me??

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