Your soul is as black as the grout in your bathroom: Where do you get off?
Stop ruining it for everyone else
Your bathrooms are an enigma. They are grim. They are also the solitary refuge for cleaning yourself.
Why they are the scummiest place in your rented dive has never made sense to me.
You let a murky pool of water, full of your own scum, form at your feet every time you shower – caused by the endemic carpet of hair clogging up the plughole.
When that subsides, only your filth remains.
The bath constantly coated in dead skin like a six foot python had just shed its excess baggage and then fucked off to an economics lecture in a rush.
The damp floor towel with a distinct size 11 Adidas stomped in like it’s been used for Dance Dance Revolution.
I thought I found solace in the sink. Following a clean shave, done in a naive attempt to rid myself of the festering dirt slowly coating me, I would use a flannel (often damp and left hanging on the sink) to wipe away any excess foam after I’d shaved.
The proud owner of the muddy coloured cloth revealed he had a weird thing about washing every part of himself quite thoroughly.
He used this brown flannel as his bum and bollocks towel. I’d been using it to clean my freshly shaven cheeks post Wilkinson Sword.
Why, if you had such a deep seated issue with your own body parts, you would choose to keep the only utensil capable of doing the job in the sink, open to others to use, touch and, in my case, rub their face with, is beyond me.
Endless disposed empty toilet rolls litter the floor. No wonder global warming is destroying the planet. You’re hoarding a hefty supply of recyclable goodies on the piss soaked floor beneath your toilet.
The dregs of Herbal Essences clog up any storage space on offer that every shower feels like a soapy murky ball pit. Don’t bemoan others using your shampoo when you’ve left four litre size bottles of TRESemmé wedged behind the gap in the door.
But can you really blame your dodgy letting agent for swiping an extra £50 off your deposit when your bathroom tiles contain more life than your soulless lack of regard for your own health.
I’m not asking for much. I just don’t want to encounter another mirror splattered with toothpaste like a Jackson Pollock. Did someone make you laugh hysterically when you brushed your enamels?
I may be scarred from run ins with that flannel. Admittedly a giant cloth with the gruff voice like Liam Neeson’s still haunts my dreams. So spare a thought for your fellow human.
It doesn’t take much. Stress might be getting to you, and if you’re molting more than a husky in during a heatwave, I have sympathy. But may I suggest not letting your housemates foot the bill for your mistake.
Open that shower door at the wrong time and you can expect a tsunami of filth, dirt, Poundworld soap burst and murky water to come crashing out, flood the floor and leak through your ceiling right onto your pillow.
That’s if you’ve bothered to lift up the floor towel. Which of course you haven’t.