Clean and Green

Today was one of those days when you have a rub-down with a baby wipe and hope for the best.  There is a reason for this.  Last night I did something so spack-tastic I set the cause back for women several centuries.

The washing machine in the murdery cellar seems to be permanently engaged so I chucked a few things in the shower and ran it full on.  Put my headphones on, watched a bit of pirate telly.  Being Human.  You can probably guess the rest.  Some pantage got caught in the plughole and when I took off my headphones all I could hear was cascading water.  I don't think I've been that frightened in years. 

The shower room was completely flooded and it was going all through the floor to downstairs.  Two twin and battling thoughts: if it gets in the electrics I'm fucked; if it goes down another floor I've fucked the neighbours.  In a non-literal sense.  Grabbing everything absorbant I swabbed and blotted till the cascade stopped.  All that damp towelling and shit is now in the shower.  So I couldn't really have a shower.  What a complete blonde spack.

The neighbours haven't knocked, so it looks like I got away with it.

The forest this morning was full of trees (Really?  Really?) blurting bits of green.  Tiny green handkerchiefs.  I walked and walked while The Boy slept and thought, as I do most days, about someone.  A man who touched me only once, and that was to say goodbye.  It is as if my body retains the diluted memory of the touch, like a homeopathic tablet.  And like homeopathy, this thought is probably complete, utter bollocks.  It certainly will not effect a cure.  I think of him.  And one cannot help these things.  It will just have to find its way out my head in its own good time.

I am now going to search for a launderette.