Jul 5, 2020: One Hundred And Seven

Dad’s ghost has been working overtime today.

I went to mum’s for the last time, maybe, for a while. Work will be restarting soon and it’s a lot harder to go over when I could be called back to work, without booking time off. But there equally doesn’t seem to be much point booking time off because I don’t think there’s a huge surge of people booking escape rooms at the moment, but I am very happy to be proved wrong on that front.

Unless they book for the late slot when all the others were available, in which case I won’t be happy…

Anyway, with it being the probable last time for a while, I had to do stuff I had cunningly put of for a bit. One of which was washing the house.

Mum’s house has upvc cladding, and that cladding gets mucky and green and bleurgh. I’ve pressure-washed it before, but I was determined not to do that again as I got soaked. So I opted for brush on a hose.

Brush on a hose was a terrible mistake.

Brush on a hose came apart in ways I didn’t think possible. The brush head unscrewed itself as I cleaned with it. The extendable pole, allowing me to reach high up the house, wasn’t held together by anything other than wishes and cobwebs and the end leaked and unscrewed itself detaching the brush from the hose with alarming frequency.

At one point, I was washing a high up area and the water was leaking from, I don’t know, somewhere on the brush, down the handle, to my hand, down my arm, into my arm pit, down my side and basically filled my trouser pocket with water.

It was a nightmare.

I stuck with it though. I wore wet clothes for six hours, because I neglected to take a change of clothes with me because when I’d used the brush before it had leaked, but not to this extent and not from any of the areas it chose to leak from today. My projections, based on past evidence, saw me nowhere near as wet as I was today.

I finished the job.

And DESTROYED THE BRUSH.

I took it apart, or what little of it remained, and kicked it around and swore at it. I felt triumphant.

Then dad’s ghost smashed some glass and threw a box of carefully sorted screwdriver heads across the floor.

Less triumphant.