My House

Asian girls >Things I am less than entirely pleased with about my house.</p>
<p><strong>Scientific Curiosity Paint</strong></p>
<p>Most days I must battle through a horde of white-coated boffins stood in wonder outside my house. At least once a week I must fend off some convoluted attempt by one of them to procure a visit to my abode; free rat surveys, reality television gameshow producers, and long lost half-cousin’s friend’s uncle’s chiropodist are great excuses but I’m just too damn smart to fall for them anymore.</p>
<p>The reason these people from prestigious corporations like ICI and Boffins ‘R’ Us or respected magazines such as Scientific American and Science Girls Spring Break are trying to gain access to my home is because they have heard that I possess something they’ve only dreamed about, formulated theories upon, and singularly failed to reproduce no matter how big they make their supercolliders: special paint.</p>
<p>Oh, it’s not <em>just</em> special paint; it’s <em>very</em> special paint. Specifically, it possesses length and height … but no apparent depth at all! It’s true. Just cough near any of the magnolia-covered walls in the house and witness the paint crack and flake off, twisting in the air, vanishing completely as they rotate side on, and then … gone! My own portable electron tunnelling microscope (I always keep one on me for emergencies) can find <em>no trace</em> of the paint! Why? Because it exists in only two dimensions!</p>
<p>And that’s why the scientists want to invade my property. That’s not some deviant sexual euphemism by the way, although some of them look like they would if they could if you know what I mean. I certainly hope you do because I could do with it explaining to me some time.</p>
<p><strong>The Petrified Wood</strong></p>
<p>We used to have an electric single oven with gas hob. The oven worked. It was slow to get up to temperature but it worked. It was only a single oven which made cooking things a pain in the rectum (remind me to tell you about the delights of rectal cookery sometime) but it worked. Then the handle fell off. Okay, technically it still worked but cooking became that much more difficult and something about levering the hot glass door open with the end of a wooden spoon and kicking it shut just seemed to say “Danger! Danger! Danger Will Robinson! Hot glass shards about to fly into your face you idiot Will Robinson!”</p>
<p>So we bought a new double oven. It’s shiny. It’s pretty. And one day soon we’ll get to use it.</p>
<p>Now, I thought – what with the house being builder-modernised when I moved in ‘n’ all – that replacing an electric oven would be a doddle: unscrew old oven, slide old oven out, disconnect wires, treat electric burns under cold water, turn off power at fusebox, continue disconnecting wires, connect wires to new oven, slide new oven in, screw oven in place, scream when oven doesn’t work, turn on power at fusebox, smile when oven works.</p>
<p>So, imagine my utter joy at discovering the old oven was effectively plugged straight into my main circuit. A quick calculation shows that if we’d ever been cooking, washing, and making a cup of tea at the same time at any point in the last six years then chances are that we’d have tripped the whole downstairs electricity supply.</p>
<p>The result is that I must now connect a new circuit to my fusebox so that the oven can run off it alone. What could possibly go wrong?</p>
<p>Well, I’ve hit a stumbling block. Actually it’s a wooden block. It’s on the floor between my kitchen and my hallway. Under my hallway is a four-foot high basement area where the electric cabling will go before it reaches the fusebox but it needs to go through this block and run behind the skirting board in the kitchen because the floor is both solid concrete and overlaid with quarry tiles. </p>
<p>It’s a wooden block. You can lever them up from the floor can’t you? You can drill through it can’t you? Perhaps you can. I can’t. The damn stuff has turned to rock. It may even be rock. Wood-effect rock: it’s the new thing in kitchens. It’s also probably bonded to the concrete floor in the kitchen and has wooden-rock-roots under my tiles too. Bastard thing.</p>
<p><strong>The Non-Econoloo</strong></p>
<p>I don’t think my toilet has one of those economy flush things that are all the rage in your upmarket mansions or areas where water is a precious commodity. Nevertheless, it is incredibly, unbelievably, remarkably rubbish at dispensing slowly more than a cup or two of water no matter how hard you press the handle. Perhaps it does have an economy setting; I fail to see how it is economical for me to flush the damn thing five times in a row as I watch the single piece of loo roll perform some kind of impressive canoe-rolling manoeuvre before bobbing up and surfacing once more.</p>
<p>You can’t use the loo brush because then you end up with loo brush covered in toilet paper.</p>
<p>You can’t take the handle by surprise because then you end up with either a fractured wrist or the need to buy a new loo handle. So far we’re on our fourth loo handle and this one’s at a jaunty angle that should theoretically give it more leverage (it doesn’t) and also means you absolutely, positively have to put the toilet seat down before you can use it. My dad – when he visits – has found a way around this and I’m unwilling to put in video cameras to discover his secret lest I accidentally discover all his other secrets too.</p>
<p>And my toilet’s got a leak too. Something, somewhere is dripping. I know where it comes out – approximately anywhere but the bowl I put under the toilet to catch the drips – but I don’t know where it starts. A crack? A bad seal? A bad seal on crack who died and was inserted into the U-bend and is decomposing into cracky, sealy, blubbery juice? I just don’t know.</p>
<p><strong>The Secret Slug Entrance</strong></p>
<p><img src=The builder who “modernised” (or “massacred” – your choice) our house was apparently something of an animal lover.

For the purposes of not getting myself in trouble with the law I should state categorically that by “animal lover” I do not mean that he spread peanut butter on his flaccid penis and got horses to lick it off for sexual pleasure. I am instead referring to the act of inserting tubes up the back passages through which squirrels are sent on nut excavation exploratory missions and spreading peanut butter on his flaccid penis before getting anteaters to lick it off.

In addition to those particularly depraved acts he also had a soft spot for slugs as evidenced by the as-yet-undiscovered tunnel built for them somewhere under my kitchen units.

For a while we would – when the night was hot and the air was still – walk into our kitchen with bare feet and not bother with the light because, well, we’d pretty much sussed where everything was. Yes, well that came to a screeching halt the first time I trod on a slug. As long as my hand (almost) and flatter than before and with slightly less moisture than slugs should have as a great portion was affixed to the underside of my toes. I screamed a manly scream. It probably screamed a sluggy one beyond the range of my hearing. Amazingly, it wasn’t dead. Despite my perfect weight for someone approximately three times my size I actually have good reflexes and am quite light-footed – years of stalking prostitutes will do that to a man. I’m also kind to nature’s creatures lest it turn out that I am one so I lifted it up and removed it to the garden and told it to watch out for birds.

It clearly watched out for birds and decided that the best course of action was to seek refuge in my kitchen which it now does on a regular basis. And I don’t know how it gets in. I’ve checked for holes, miniature transporters, secret doors in the brickwork: nothing. It just appears some nights. And you can look at the trail across the quarry tiles and see that it seems to start in the middle of a tile in the middle of the room. I’ve checked for slug mediums in the yellow pages to see whether this is some kind of otherworldly manifestation. But for now I’m just confused. And annoyed. And a little scared. And my toes are still sticky.

Author: Mark

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  1. Cats bring slugs in sometimes. This would obviously entail the need for you to have a cat.

    How about washing the floor with a saline solution .. it wouldn’t be very nice but …

    .. can’t think of a positive spin. Sorry.

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  2. Run your house on 12 volt. Much safer (although dimmer).

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  3. I have two cats but I know they’re not to blame. They’d actually have to go through the magnetic cat flap and that’s really too much trouble most of the time. They’d much rather steal whichever chair I’m thinking about sitting in.

    Great suggestion Steve. All I’d need would be a starlight nightvision scope and everything would appear at the right luminescence. With a hint of green.

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  4. Hey ho. I have nothing to say on the above (as ever)but I thought I would pop in and say hello since you left the most amusing comment on my blog and it made me chuckle. Anything/one that can make me laugh at work is obviously damn fabulous so I thought I would come and tell you such!!

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