Freaking neat
If there’s one thing that living alone has taught me (or rather, confirmed), it’s that I’m a neat freak. I clean my decidedly small apartment at least twice a week. Dishes are forbidden from piling up, the bath needs a frequent scrub and my floor gets a good sweeping with alarming regularity.
What doesn’t help is that the previous tenant clearly was not as diligent as I, and as a result, my bath has been left with a stain or two that no amount of scrubbing can fix. This is a source of constant aggrevation, and as I have discovered, filling the tub with water and bleach doesn’t do anything but make me stain my jumper and cause consternation (I really like that jumper).
But the stains aren’t limited to the bathroom. My kitchen floor is lino, which likewise had seen months of neglect under the ancien régime. I have actually got on my hands and knees with a scrubbing brush and taken them to task, with mixed results.
It is here I should point out that reading this, my mother would not believe that I am really her son. Admittedly, I’m not quite as zealous about cleanliness at home, the exception being my bedroom. There’s a simple logic to this: I’m only concerned with ‘my’ things. That’s right: I’m a selfish neat freak. As long as my apartment or my room is clean, I’m satisfied. But it’s a start, right?
