Tag Archives: cleaning spree

That Reminds Me of a Story

3 Dec

We are having our annual Open House on December 13th, and are busily engaged in getting this place cleaned up. (Actually, the only reason we put ourselves through all this is to give the house a good going-over. Sort of our version of Passover cleaning.) I was using the steamer on the living room carpet when it suddenly began spewing hot water everywhere and would not suck it back up.

The Squire took it outside and got it to the point where it will suck up the water, but it won’t spray, so I had to dump the hot soapy water into a pan and go over half of the living room floor with a scrub brush.

Except that a thorough search did not locate a proper scrub brush, so I was reduced to using the toilet brush. Look, a brush is a brush, right?

And thereby hangs a tale…

Not too long after we were married our youngest daughter, who was maybe nine or ten at the most, offered to polish her dad’s shoes for him. It was a Friday night, and we let the kids stay up late to watch TV, so instead of staying in the bathroom to polish the shoes, she carried the bottle of black polish and his shoes through the dining room, into the living room, past the sofa, and finally sat the bottle on the end table.

She came upstairs to tell us she had “spilled some shoe polish”.  She had left a trail of black spots all through the house, including over the back and seat of the sofa. We told her to go to bed and we’d clean it up. Actually, this was for her own safety, as one or the other of us would have killed her if she’d stuck around – and she knew it! I filled a scrub bucket with hot soapy water, and since we only had one scrub brush, I got on my hands and knees with that and The Squire began working on the sofa with the only other tool at hand – the toilet brush.

We have always slept in the nude, even before we even knew each other. My winter pyjamas is a pair of wool socks. (It’s a good use for odd socks, and Heaven knows we all have those!) When we came down to see what sort of “spill” we had to deal with, we’d both wrapped a towel around ourselves, but they soon came unfastened, and we’d ended up with them tossed around our necks.

So you had two nekkid people, wearing socks, with towels around their necks, mumbling curses, and wielding toilet brushes. It is, as I have often said, fortunate we have no close neighbours.

And we never did get the polish off the end table.

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8 Apr

We have been looking for that blasted dead mouse for about a week now, without much luck. We gave the TV room side a good going-over a couple of days ago. That side has what I would have considered the most likely spots – plenty of tubs of costumes, which have now been moved to the attic, thank you very much – but no luck.

The Squire insisted the smell was much stronger near the sewing machine. I tilted it back and even looked up inside it, but no go. We pulled everything out from under the bed – two large flat boxes, which hold patterns and fabric for Colonial outfits, plus oodles of tissue paper – and still didn’t find anything. We even looked under the mattress and between the mattress and the box spring. Finally, we pulled the head of the bed away from the wall, but we still didn’t see any moldering bodies on the carpet.

Just as we were pushing the bed back, a flicker of movement caught my eye, as the mouse fell from the edge of the bedframe onto the floor. It had climbed up off the floor, I suppose, to avoid Sir Edmund’s attention and died, out of sight but definitely not out of mind.

He was tenderly wrapped in a tissue paper shroud and buried with great ceremony in the trashcan outside.

The song is ended, but the melody lingers on. Phew! Quick, Henry! The Lysol!