There are ominous sounds coming from the bathroom. I cleaned it all yesterday except for the shower stall. I scrubbed the toilet, the basin, the scum from around the taps, vacuumned and shook out the bath mat. However. I know from past experience M has a fundamental disbelief that I can ever clean the bathroom to meet his high standards. Of course, these standards only arise when guests are imminent. This morning I cleaned the outside of the shower stall with window cleaner, and coated the inside with shower cleaning stuff for him to wash off when he cleans underneath the wooden slats that you stand on, boatlike, that are impossible for me to get out.
“Did you do the walls inside the shower?” he asks loudly, with a dangerous politeness.
“No,” I try to shriek in modulated tones from my seat in the study, “there wasn’t enough shower cleaning stuff left – but I did the glass walls and the whole thing to just above ankle height where it gets manky.”
“Righhhhhht.” I hear him heave the sort of sigh that questions my right to existence. Like it was my fault that the shower cleaner ran out.
He’s still in there – things are being banged around just a little bit too loudly…
Update: All fine – we are companionably working our way through a carton of Coopers Sparkling Ale – alllll is right with the world.