Mould (or mold if you're American) happens

... while you're writing poetry.

When I started this blog last year I wasn't a poet, or wannabe part-time poet (there's another blog right there: Part-time poet. I can't help myself). Instead, before I penned the odd poem (or 200) on this blog, I waxed lyrical and not so lyrical about the ins and outs of HOUSEKEEPING. Check it out back in April, May, June 2013, if you dare.

Since poetry -- and I'm okay with blaming poetry for my shameful shower if you are -- my passion for housekeeping has waned somewhat from a "rock 'n' roll" spirit, as I once described it, to more of a let it be one. Get out the piano/pen and weep while the world falls, instead of get out the bleach and on your knees and scrub while the mould grows tall.

The shower(s) didn't necessarily thank me. Who knew mould begets mould. I did and I didn't. Also I did and a I didn't care. I was writing POETRY folks. In the greater scheme of things, I'm fairly sure poetry trumps mould. Besides which, this is the "kids'" shower and they are no longer kids. Still, getting teenagers to clean the shower is harder than getting a poet to. And if you have a teenage poet (which I don't) you can forget about it. That shower will be be so alive with mould it'll be cleaning itself before a teenage poet gets on his or her poetic knees and scrubs it off. With a forty-something part-time poet, your chances of a clean shower are slightly better...

I know. But I said slightly better, and this is a week after the clean and I have three teenagers (well one is twenty-one but he cleans like a teenager). And if you think this ain't clean, you should see the rest of the shower. I only cleaned this corner.