Understand me, won't you try, try, try, try, try

I gazed at the flowers this morning and contemplated that their sad and wilted state reflected my poor droopy heart. 

Tooli was leaving for Edinburgh this morning, after the fastest three weeks since time immemorial.

No longer would the front door be an assault course of 7inch platforms, discarded clothing and hand bag straps. 

No longer would the sofas; (of which she has pointed out we have many more than is required), be full of pillows, blankets, and Tooli, gently snoring as she recovers for yet another night of partying. 

No longer would the toilet be devoid of towels. 

No longer would her bedroom be the resting place of soggy towels. 

No longer would the glass cupboard be empty of glasses. 

No Longer would Tooli's room be full of variable pieces of glassware, mugs, and plates. 

It was not the consideration of all these glorious things which made my heart ache. 

It was knowing that upon reaching her flat, I would have to venture to the toilet and do something to it, before all the girls who inhabit there died of syphilis.

We stopped as ASDA en route, and I purchased chemicals (to hell with saving the planet, I had to use man-made power to kill these beasts), rubber gloves, sponges, clothes, toilet cleaners, toilet dangly things, kitchen roll, toilet roll, more rubber gloves. 

I dropped the Child and her Pater at the flat and circled Leven Street for approximately 20 minutes endeavouring to find a parking space; eventually opting for  illegal but close 

I climbed the stairs, I decanted from my coat, and donned the rubber gloves.  I announced my intention and armed to the ears with cleaning material stepped into the Toilet of Horror and Puke. 

And the fell over the bloody step inside.  

Who the hell puts a step in the toilet?? seriously?   If I lived in that flat as a student, I would have lost my teeth in the first week, running in to throw up, as is the way of Fresher week. 

Thirty minutes, and two bottles of bleach and industrial strength wipes later, the bath / shower was no longer black.  (I kid you not, the chosen few have seen the disgusting syphilis ridden mess it was), the toilet pan did not have rings of dirt around it, and the hand sink was actually found to be quite attractive. 

The floor was no longer sodden, but clean and has a lovely shiny gleam to it.  The seven lady razors I found growing in the black mould had been removed, and chucked, and all the plug holes had been plunged within an inch of their lives and thus freed of the lady hair which had blocked them. 

The toilet was once more habitable, and usable. 

I however, had absorbed most of the chemical fumes, and had to leave the flat quickly, and inhale most of my Sabutamol to even let me breathe properly again. 

I know have a proper sexy voice. 

We are home, the house is quiet.  The TV box is ours.  There is no more "Say Yes to the Bloody Dress". 

But yes, I miss her, and the house will be so quiet without her.  

Even knowing that when she was here, she was indeedy trying to cultivate the evil toilet mould in here too. 

And Pater and I cann revert to LOUD NOISY SEX 

Pah ha ha ha ha