Hestia and ......the butterfly effect

The Great Wave......

Tartarus is coming home soon and the house is like Beirut, minus the cracked plasterwork burned out cars.  I have been beavering away here, doing that parTICularly tricky sort of cleaning that looks just good enough to pass for How Tidy The House Has Been  All The Time In Your Absence, but not SO good that he rumbles that I've been up until 3am trying to knock the place into shape.



I had a glass of water beside my bed and I decided to take it downstairs as part of the Big Tidy.  Truthfully, it was the remnants of my new favourite tipple, a whisky and ginger ale.  I'd forgotten to drink it, I'd become so engrossed in Hilary Mantel's novel 'Beyond Black'.  More of that in another post though.

I had an armful of washing, but picked up the glass with its considerable amber contents anyway. Walking into the hall I promptly dropped a small boy's striped sock.  As I bent over to pick it up, the contents of the glass splashed onto the (recently washed, let me tell you) upper landing.

In my new capacity as Someone Who Does Not Swear, Even When There Is No One Else In The House I gave a loud sigh and went looking in the bathroom for a cloth.

Whilst rootling around at the back of the cupboard for something more absorbent than a sanitary towel, I came across some old bottles of perfume and began to sniff away at them; I hunkered down on the bathroom floor, long-forgotten bubbles of Hestia personal history floating to the surface with every breath.

Inspired, I decided to write a blog post and spent a happy hour writing about some old perfume loves (which was my post the other day).

After I'd zapped off the blog, I got caught up in re-reading old posts of mine and giggling away to myself.  I suspect that's REALLY bad form; to find your own writing amusing. Like thinking your own farts don't smell quite as bad as anyone else's.  Or something equally ridiculous.

But when you've forgotten what you've written, it must be forgivable to let rip with the odd snort of laughter, yes? Maybe? P'raps not.

Something tugged at the untucked corner of my sad little duvet mind.....what was I doing before I settled down to write the blog and piddle mindlessly about on Facebook? BUGGER ME!!!! The whisky and ginger ale!!!!!!

Yes, I lapsed.  The swearing was back.  But limited to inside my head.  And on this blog, obviously. And sometimes at my music lesson.

I flew out into the hall with the cloth and started mopping up the spilled (now slightly sticky) drink.  I noted that it had run across the floor and between the spindles of the banister...and over the side.  With a mounting sense of doom, I peered over the edge to see that it had indeed dripped down to create a well-soaked-in stain on the stair runner carpet, a goodly distance beneath me.

Reader, that stair carpet cost more than the house (not really, but you get my drift).  More swearing.

A bucket of hot soapy water was obtained from the kitchen and some earnest rubbing (and a modicum of prayer) ensured that the stain was eventually removed.  But now the rest of the step looked a bit tatty around the newly cleaned area (it was near the foot of the stairs, part of the constellation of increasingly grubby stairs that Sonshine uses to great theatrical effect when he comes in from school by sprawling all over them and telling me what a TERRIBLE day he's had at the hands of the dreaded Mrs D).

I cleaned the whole step.

I carried the bucket of grey, soapy water back to the kitchen, intending to tip it down the sink.

Instead, I didn't tip it down the sink, I tripped over my abandoned gardening boots and tipped the water absolutely fucking EVERYWHERE.  It mainly hit the IKEA table which caused the water to tsunami itself in a massive splatter up the walls, the ceiling, the window, the front of the oven....and the long-suffering carpet tiles.

Honestly, I stood for a good 10 minutes listening to the water dripping onto the work surfaces and floor, wondering which area needed tackling first.  In the end,  I decided to do what any good Domestic Goddess would do.  I pulled on my jacket and boots and went shopping. 

*please note:  I returned with no lovely floaty silky things as I had hoped.  Just a massive pair of flesh-toned control knickers*

The kitchen looked remarkably....ok.  Although I may have to artificially resuscitate a couple of carpet tiles before hubby gets home.

Hours of mess from one little dropped sock.