You know what nobody ever talks about? The fact that when you move into a residence that was previously occupied, if the painters are lazy sods, they paint over stray hairs in the bathroom. THAT’S RIGHT – stray hairs frozen in time, straggly monuments of poor hygiene paid forward to new residents. I know because I’ve seen them in every apartment I’ve ever lived in. I like to do an über cleaning to start things off on the right, erm, disinfected foot. Last night I finally got around to the bathroom, which I gave a sanitary what for. And I can attest that the indignity of dealing with those hairs and their off-the-charts gnarliness is far worse than the last indignity I can recall, having my butt cheeks spread during a skin cancer check. In fact, I would rather enjoy a prolonged cheek spreading if it meant I’d never again be on what a less-urbane blogger might call Pube Patrol.
Pardon me while I wash my hands in a solution of bleach and more bleach for the hundreth time.