I decided today to give the sculpting a rest and tackle the daunting task of cleaning my hormonal, angst-ridden teenage son's room. I'm beginning to wish I hadn't stepped through the door to what I now believe to be another dimension, or possibly Hell.
Squalid, is one word that springs to mind. A large pile of fetid, unwashed clothes sat on the floor staring accusingly at me and I swear I saw it move. How he can sleep in that pit is beyond me. Think of the worst stereotypical student accomodation you can, add a hint of boarded up squat to the mix and then times it by 100 and you're probably close to the sight and smell of it.
Kim and Aggie would have a field day in there! I on the other hand wimped out. I picked up the clothes, plates, cups and everything else I could bear to touch and closed the door behind me.
I left him a note on the door telling him to sort it out pretty sharpish or else. I expect it will be ignored in favour of far more important things like sulking, shouting , listening to music at eardrum shattering levels and playing his PSP.
But then again he'll have to find the PSP first, won't he? He'll have to go through all his stuff to look for it and maybe he'll tidy up as he goes along.
After all, there's no telling where he left it...it certainly isn't hidden in my airing cupboard under the towels.
