I am not a tidy person. There, I said it. I’m not. I have things. Lots of things. Things I’m emotionally attached to, things I can’t live without.
Things I think I can make money with but will never leave the house.
This is my reality.
I live in a house which is covered in kids crap. I’m fine with that. I really am.
Funnily enough, the toys are the only things which have homes. Every toy (until tomorrow!) can be put in a drawer or box or pile and peace can be restored.
It’s all the other crap.
The clothes, the towels, the bedding, the tatt. It is everywhere.
I was hoping to get a new wardrobe. A wardrobe of beauty. One which can hide most of my sins.
Then we got skint.
So now we have half our clothes in the loft, some in crates in our room, most in the laundry –
The tumble drier eeked out its death throes this morning, leaving the house smelling like burning rubber, my ears slightly sore and a large load of washing which I will struggle to dry.
I’m disgusted by the accumulation of shit. I’m grossed out by the Cheerios everywhere.
I know there are hairy spiders lurking under piles of crud.
There’s a three foot mountain of stuff by the cot.
I’m so desperately depressed about it.
It all feels a bit much.