Wednesday 25th October 2006

I know I don’t keep my room in the best state ever. This tendency has been ingrained in me since childhood, when, as a toddler, I assumed that “bomshittit” (pronounced “boms-hittit”, IPA bɒmzhɪtɪt) was a real word meaning an especially squalid place because my mum would so frequently come into my room and say “This place looks like a bomb’s hit it.”

But when visitors start abiding by my self-cultivated uncleanliness, what does this imply?

So far this week, two of my visitors have added to my impromptu piles of crap. One placed an apple core teetering atop a plate filled with slowly fermenting fruit (which, if ordered by reverse brownness, would have given quite an accurate timeline of my attempts to have five a day over the preceding week), the other threw a tissue into the small pile which seems to materialise next to my computer.

Are these signs that people are accepting my way of life amongst my crap, or are they a sad reflection that those I know and love enough to bring back to my room are resigned to its perpetual grubbiness?

I would like to point out that neither of these piles are entirely my fault: it is Oxford’s policy that the room-cleaning “scouts” should not enter a room if the bin is outside its door. Sadly, since my room is almost perpetually a tip, I leave my bin outside the door every day apart from cleaning day, so my bin is always inconveniently far from me when I need to dispose of anything.

Now I write that down it sounds more circular and self-perpetuating than I had realised.

Maybe I should go to bed such that I might tidy this place up tomorrow…

 

Comments

  1. Paw says (15:01 27/10/2006)

    You have two bins. Leave one outside. Use one inside. Alternate on a daily basis.

  2. Louise says (09:55 29/10/2006)

    Stop worrying. Global warming needs your brain power!

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