Domesticity
One of the things they don’t tell you about being a grown up is that while you may get to stay up all night, come home when you want, live off cereal if you must, order drinks in the bar, go out to dinner, have jobs that allow you views like this, and generally not explain your actions to anyone, in exchange for this freedom comes responsibility and domesticity and cleaning the toilet.
This weekend the housemates and I paid the council tax, hoovered both hallways and all the stairs, cleaned the kitchen, sorted through the big pile of post and junk mail by the front door, tidied the lounge, attempted to find an innovative solution to the sofa situation (the throw comes off whenever anybody sits down and we don’t have covers for the cushions) swept up, cleaned the bathrooms and *watered* the plants. The house now resembles one inhabited by the young professionals we profess to be rather than the students we once were.
After much productivity indoors, housemate Dave and I stood outside on the patio and surveyed the garden – the patch at the back covered in dead grass and inhabited, so the neighbours tell us, by foxes; the brambles encroaching and crawling across the patio, preventing us from lying down and sunning ourselves; the tree that has grown up in the middle of the washing line, we’d rather not be hanging our clothes on the branches, and we could have sworn that we used to be able to get to the shed at the bottom of the garden. We ummed and ahhhed and talked about the need to prune the growth, to dig up and turn over some of the borders especially at the back, sounded knowledgeable to the neighbours either side and then decided that what we really needed, and the obvious solution was to get our Dads down to sort the whole thing out ;-).
Favour: does anyone have any gardening equipment they can lend us?
Drinking: on the roof
Watching: Sky News