Gruncle Bill came to stay yesterday which means on Monday I checked out no. 3's room to make sure he'd tidied for Bill to stay in. I've been asking him for days and every time I ask he tells me, in a ffs woman, tone of voice 'yes, it's done, I told you I did it".
Yeah! So turns out no. 3's version of tidying his room and me tidying his room are two VERY different things. His idea of tidying up is to fuck everything he owns under his bed. I found two school uniforms under there. TWO!! From a school he will never again attend. I also found many, many odd socks and all his missing pants. Dirty, for the most part, and stinking up his wardrobe.
It took three hours but that room was spotless when I finished. There were also two bags of clothes that no longer fit him ready for the charity shop and a very full black bag of broken shit. My kids take after their dad and hoard. They hoard everything. Even if it's broken cos, like, it may come in useful.
Then I went into no. 2's room. He, also, has spent a large part of the past week tidying the pit he calls a bedroom. Again, tonnes of bastarding knickers and socks under the beds (he has two singles in his room so even more space to stash shit). Along with a lot of malteaser bags (empty), pringle tubes (empty) and magnum wrappers.... (empty!!!!)
Another two bags of clothes to be recycled and another bag of rubbish to be dumped. Along with every fucking guitar string he has ever owned ... snapped, no use, but .... you never know when it might come in handy.
It got to the point that I started crying. Actually, not crying more SCREAMING that they were lousy, selfish fuckwits who had zero respect for me etc. etc. Five people live in our house. Five, Not 11. Five! Yet there were ELEVEN towels over the bannister 'airing'. Eleven? Like, how the fuck did they use 11 towels in two days? There were also 3 empty toilet roll tubes on the toilet cistern, an empty roll on the holder, a towel on the floor and one hanging on the hook. Six empty shower gel bottles on the edge of the bath and 7 facecloths, in various stages of drying from soaked and smelly to dry as a bone in the bath and draped on the shower screen. Oh, and a pair of dirty jocks just in front of the toilet where one of the scuts had stepped out of them and left them there for the fairies to pick up.
AFter I had done screaming and lay, wrecked, and wrung out on the stairs the bastards said 'if you want help you only have to ask'.
Why, oh fucking why, does it take me losing seven shades of shit and most of my sanity before the bastards listen to me.
