Domesticity

Obsessive, compulsive domesticity.

As I type this, I'm eerily aware of the bottle of Dettol poised expectantly just beyond my reach.
This is the first time in days I've put my antibacterial arsenal down and not felt acutely uncomfortable knowing that my room could be just that little bit cleaner.

Just a scrub here, a wipe there, a spray there - what could it hurt?

Well, after days on my knees frantically swiping at the skirting board and smearing newsprint across my mirror, it occurred to me that I had one very simple choice: sanitation, or sanity.

The problem with me is that I devote myself 100% to any course of action until it's done and dusted; when writing articles for the University's Student Magazine or sending important emails, it's a very useful trait to have... but when it transfers over to trivial things like whether or not that's a coffee ring or a wood-pattern on my desk, I need to remind myself that you need to let some things go.

I'm a student at university, I own enough clutter/crap to organise my own car-boot sale and we have our house-warming party in just over a few weeks; my house is going to get messy, and I can't prat about with this Kim and Aggy routine indefinitely.

My shrine to sanitation, but for how long?

Even without the crazy cleanliness, I can see my BlackBerry sat a few feet away, whirring incessantly like a child that stubbornly insists on soiling itself. As Adam would say "the baby's crying again."

I can safely say that staying at home cleaning for the past few days (and nights!) has warped my outlook almost enough to turn me into a Justin Bieber fan... A few more bottles of Domestos and I'd be ready to launch into a chorus of "shawty is en eenie meenie minie moe lurrrva"

... Christ, as if I know the words.
I have only one thing to say to that:

I belieb that solvent abuse ruins lives - it's a waste of time, time, time, time, time.

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