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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

My flatmate’s voice sounded slightly frightened when she softly called me away from my computer and towards the bathroom. “Shazzle…” she almost whispered, “… don’t be scared, but I think I might have made a tiny mistake.” I immediately leapt from the floor on which I was sitting (lap top balanced on a pile of OU books in front of me so as to keep in line with health and safety ergnomics and all that), because I will accept any excuse not to stay writing my essay for any longer than is painfully necessary.

I crept towards the bathroom, afraid of what I might find inside, and pushing the door slowly open was met initially with her frightened face. “Um…” she started, and then just gestured towards the back wall, holding still in her hand the scraper she’d been using the strip the wallpaper from the walls. At the back wall, I could see the remnants of five layers of wallpaper (some of which we calculate has been up since the 1950s). I could see plaster. But most of all, I could see brick work. Lots and lots of brickwork.

The problem, you see, is the two-day job that my flatmate had envisaged undertaking to redecorate our bathroom had suddenly turned into a nightmare. We had thought along the lines of: (1) buy tin of paint, (2) paint bathroom. Helen had decided on adding a third step in between one and two, which was (1b) strip old wallpaper from bathroom wall. What Helen had now done was (1c) expose old brickwork which will need to be replastered before painting can take place.

I think our bathroom, never the most pleasant place to spend a lot of time, is now going through its most difficult stage yet. To the extent that, tomorrow night, I must go round to He Who Only…’s house in order to dye my hair. Oh, the girly humiliation of it all.


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