Skanky Kitchen

I live with skanks. it's official. I always knew that going to uni with people who had families that loved them was going to be a bit alien, but shit.

Honestly.

Skanks.

Their Mummys have clearly done everything for them, namely the cleaning in this instance. Great people mind you, nice and friendly, but the Kitchen...
Got back from the Christmas holiday and noticed a large pile of pre-washing up on the worktop, the washing up bowl was festering, the fridge was sprouting all sorts of weird fungal crap from a bottom shelf encrusted with milk and ex-bacon. The vegetable drawers were like the inside of Ron Jeremy's pants. The bin won't get a mention because I lack the vocabulary.

The whole place smelt of puke and looked similar. 'My God, we're too late' I thought.

Cleaning it was one of the most unpleasant experiences of my life (probably in the top 10) it stank, it grew, it grasped at my ankles with long tentacles, I wasn't having that.

Three hours later and the place is gleaming (actually glinting in the cold, sterile, post-bleaching) and i know that in a week's time it will be exactly the bloody same as it it was: Rancid.
I'm not cleaning it again, there are too many sacrifices to be made in order to do so: Pink Marigolds and a feather duster - which on other occasions can be bloody good fun, are ruined when put to their intended use.