Today is Sunday. My goodness, how time flies when you divide your time between repeatedly slamming your head on the table and parading about in a freak show. Despite my overwhelming urge to impersonate my fridge and remain in the corner humming all morning, I tossed my near weeping self out of bed and prepared to face the glorious midday sun. It was one of those moments where one finally has to admit that something ought to be Done. The last scratchings of peanut butter had been scraped out of the jar with the last relatively clean teaspoon, the soy milk was definitely off, these socks are clearly not a pair and there is a funny crunching sound coming out of the carpet. It was indeed dire. How would I find time to burn down the house and move into a new one before Monday?
With arson and immigration not an option I had to face the facts that it was not enough to own a vacuum cleaner, it was necessary to operate It as well. Further sobering was the revelation that whilst I have been achieving personal cleanliness in the shower, paradoxically the shower in turn was becoming unclean. I could take to wearing wellingtons and not touching the walls or I could clean it. I looked everywhere for those damn boots. It was also clear that the only fashion statement I was making with this outfit was “I ran out of clean clothes over two weeks ago”. There is a limit to the number of times you can pretend that you are late for a Toga / Fetish / School Uniform party before your neighbours start to talk. I was also thoroughly divided over whether it is immoral to eat the rodents, seeing as one was once a Vegetarian.
Thus with the look of a child about to receive an injection I set about the tasks at hand. In a flash of inspiration I bleached myself and shampooed the shower. I incinerated my clothes in the oven and sent a memo to the neighbours saying that since I am a Performance Artist and Interpretative Dancer I will no longer be subject to the loathsome indignity of “fashion”. About five minutes later I was very cold and very sorry, so I hurriedly choreographed a new routine* with a costume constructed out of tea towels, used tissues and masking tape. High on the smell of ammonia and burning polyester I rode around the house on the vacuum cleaner with a feather duster and a filthy sponge in each raised and clenched fist. I was indeed proud of myself and at that moment ready to give birth and raise superbly shiny children. After a good sprinkling of glitter the house did indeed sparkle and I was content knowing that for another day I had staved off the fascists from the Health Department.
Buoyed by my recent success or perhaps just delirious I surveyed my situation thus far from my vantage point on top of the bookshelf. I asked myself if I thought I was becoming peculiar from all this time alone and I reassured myself with a series of soothing snorts and cooing sounds that it was definitely not me, it was everyone else. I then gleefully flung myself off my perch and after peeling myself off the concrete, I put the kettle on the stove (after unplugging it of course) and made myself a delicious cup of shredded newspaper tea.
*This new dance is entitled “Two Lawn Mowers Kissing”.