My house smells like a swimming pool. I still find that smell exciting in a Pavlovian way - it reminds me of pushing through the slow-clanking turnstiles at Chiswick Outdoor Pools. Those pools were rank - there were always dead wasps and fag-butts floating in them. They chalked up the temperature of the water near the entrance but it was always bollock-numbingly cold. Not that I had bollocks, of course, being a girl. Capons never do, you know.
Oh, yes, it smells of bleach in here because I've been giving the fridge a makeover. I believe other people just call it "cleaning". I have made a temporary fridge by hoisting a plastic bag on a nail in the wall outside. Foxes won't be able to get up there. Squirrels might, but they are a bit put off by the foxes.
I am making by dinner by steeping rice in boiling water till it's cooked and then mixing it with stuff. Later I will be whittling sex toys from pieces of abandoned garden furniture. OK, that bit isn't true.
It's rather like camping, this. Except indoors. And I'm going to Paris in two days so the novelty won't have time to wear off before then. I'm still somewhat confused as to why I had five unopened bags of Aunt Bessie's Bubble and Squeak in the freezer.