It's that time of year when your child needs collecting from uni. It's easy to remember which house it is because of the traffic cone on the porch roof. You brace yourself for the empty beer cans, overflowing ashtrays and the heaps of crunchy clothes that appear to be in danger of being beyond the scope of any biological powders, whatever they say on the adverts. There is always at least one illicit shopping trolley on its side in the back garden, sticky patches of dried beer on the kitchen floor and a full size, slightly rusty, road sign warning you the hallway is narrowing soon. You trip over the iron that has been plugged into the socket by the front door for three months (not switched on luckily) and skid on the junk mail lining the hall carpet. If you have thought ahead, you will have used the facilities on the motorway, because the bathroom will not have any toilet paper in it, the bin will be overflowing with clumps of hair and dead razors and the dark stains under the taps will put you off wanting to wash your hands. When you tentatively ask for your cutlery and crockery back (which you had been looking for for several months) it appears that you need to do three weeks backlog of washing up to find it all. You don't get to meet the housemates, because although it is six o'clock on a beautiful summer's evening, they haven't got up yet.
Eventually you get home and unpack the car. Although you are delighted to have your loved one back, there is a niggling concern that your house will be looking more like a student dive again shortly.
'I think I drank too much last night'*Disclaimer - Any similarity between the housekeeping habits described above and of any living human being are purely co-incidental. No member of my family would EVER live in conditions such as those above, which are purely the construct of my over-active imagination.
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