Drip

A new year. A fresh start.

A clean slate. A blank canvas.

A bright future.

A different tack.

Like the tides: wet, boring, eternal, ruining sandcastles.

Welcome to 2012.

LISTEN TO THE FUN-KLAXON

***

I smell bleach. The smell is coming from some bleach. I've been cleaning. The windows were pretty straightforward, all grimeless and smooth now. The toilet was a delight as usual.

I decided to tackle the black mould around the bath. That was a challenge. Most of it was there before we moved into this flat. We've made several attempts to remove it, but nothing has worked. That mould is perennial. You can't scrub away nature. It's like trying to suck up a glacier with a straw. Futile and entertaining.

But I've redoubled my efforts, and have covered it in bleach. I left it there for a couple of hours, then scrubbed with an old toothbrush and a sponge. I think I might have made some progress, but it's difficult to tell. I'll wait until Lucy's home. We need fresh eyes.

My guess? 40% of the mould has gone. Not bad. Not bad at all. Maybe I should try more bleach. Or bleach for longer.

I smell bleach. Still.

I rinsed it away, but I think some residue might be lingering. Or it could all be in my head. The bleach, I mean. It could all be in my head, dissolving the brain mould that blackens the edge of my subconscious.

That has been my day so far: bleaching, scrubbing, rinsing, drinking, dancing, fencing, blanching, beaching. I know how to spend my free time.

I'm feeling slow. I want to get carried away with something, but I seem to be resolutely stationary. I'd like to charge down a blind alley, with only hope as my compass. But all the alleys are too brightly lit.

I want to stop writing in this style. It's not helping anyone. I need longer sentences.

A long time ago, when men were men and women were also, before the time of trains and cars that change colour under the hot tap, before anyone had heard of the hover-factory, between two significant epochs and underneath and obscure war, a boy lived in a tumbledown yacht in the south Atlantic, working as a cabin boy for three shillings per sixpence, learning a trade, seeing the world, carving a niche and generally annoying the rest of the crew.

Maybe I don't need longer sentences.

I just found the nail clippers! I looked at the shelf, and there they were! Finally! My long search is over!

You know when you're making yourself a glass of tap water, by turning on the tap and catching the water in some kind of receptacle, such as a beaker or your own cupped hands? You know how you run the tap for a little while first, because you want it nice and cold and clear?

You know that, right?

Well, you know that first bit of water - the non-cold, non-clear, tepid, scummy, pipe-lurking, waste water?

That's this blog post. I'm just running it through the system, so that by about March, everything will be pure and refreshing. So bear with me. I know you're thirsty.