My least favourite chore
Mrs B and I live on an island, near the coast. We know many people who own high-rise holiday apartments, which they occupy for just a few weeks each year. While they are absent, the pigeons run amok. They shit everywhere, and manage to fully cover almost every unoccupied balcony. Inches and inches of excrement.
It smells, it’s very difficult to clean, and it takes hours and hours of back-breaking effort to clear up the disgusting mess.
A couple of years ago, we were preparing for a family visit, which included our granddaughter and three-year-old great grandson, who were both to stay in a friend’s apartment. This place had not been occupied since before the pandemic, so off toddled me and Mrs B a few days before they arrived to make sure it was fit for purpose.
Not in our wildest dreams could we have conjured up the image and odour that greeted us. It was nauseating. As we opened the blinds, the floor of the balcony remained invisible, covered, we soon discovered, by four to five inches of poo. Maybe three years-worth, and not only on the floor, but down the surrounding walls, and all over the glass balustrades, while the air-condition units were blocked with pigeon nests. We instantly regretted not having a pair of wellington boots to use. Or a gun with which to kill the bastards.
So, we began the process of wading through the mess; much of it baked to a crust by the tropical climate, which needed a pickaxe to break through. The slimy, filthy, putrid stuff was underneath. For two whole days, we toiled in the heat of a Cypriot summer, until, finally, there was no more. The resident pigeons had moved to pastures new, probably next door, and there was no evidence of their revolting residue. We thought.
Paige and little Laith arrived with the rest of the family, and we greeted them in the car park below. I then accompanied the two of them into the lift and into what was effectively a newly-renovated apartment.
Paige took one step inside as her nose twitched, and she shouted out: “Oh my God, that’s disgusting, we can’t stay here!”, and she promptly turned round and walked out, dragging her son behind her.
It began to dawn on me that I was of course now immune to the smell, having been immersed in it the previous two days. Two days of sweat, toil and trouble, all for nothing. Within a week, the balcony was covered once more.
My worst domestic job
I will be short and precise.
We still don’t have a wash-disher for several reasons. In 2022, we were about to leave Russia for obvious reasons.
Life is life.
We then applied for the U.S. citizenship lottery. Not too much success yet.
Anyway, I have to wash all this stuff manually.
I hate it. And I know I am not very good at it. This drives me mad even more.
And historically, wash-dishing is not a dream job. In our family, it is me who does it. My wife has to re-wash it sometimes and gets mad at me. At times.
Anyway, I had better do 50 push-ups instead. Everyday. Well, I do 30. Twice a week. This is how much I hate my worst domestic job. If these things are comparable at all.
P.S. I will buy the f****** wash-dishing machine soon. And, finally, we’ll do the civilized way. A bright new dawn of life!
My least favorite chore
To be completely honest, I don’t mind chores around the house. I’m not one of those clean freaks who wipes down the furniture every time I sit down but I really don’t mind chores. I suppose that’s because I don’t like a messy house. I would prefer to load the dishwasher to having a full sink. This house looks like a pig-pen anyhow; we have a dog infestation and they think they belong inside. They track stuff in and there’s hair everywhere. And who told them they could live here? Oh, yeah, me.
Having said that, I get lazy this time of year. It’s been hot here for a couple of weeks now and I just don’t feel like doing anything. The heat just sucks all the go out of me and I only want to be a lump in this chair. There are several little jobs I need to do but four or five o’clock rolls around and I go “the hell with it, maybe I should wait until tomorrow.” Question: what do you think happens tomorrow?
There’s one job I don’t like: vacuuming the pool. That is my least favorite chore. Yeah, I know, I know, first world problem. Bite me. It sucks. I always do it first thing in the morning while it’s still cool but I’m still tired the rest of the day. I didn’t want this damn pool and argued against it. I know about pools. It’s been here for three years and I think I’ve been in it four times. Three times I got in so I could clean it better; it’s hard to get behind the ladder from above. It’s a money pit that sucks the souls of small children. No really; it’s like some Harry Potter business up in here. Gargoyles sit around in the trees, shaking limbs so they can watch the leaves fall in. Yeah! Ha, ha! “Hey Frank, only half your leaves got in, better shake it again.” I hate those guys.