Behind This Door Lies Untold Horrors

I have made an accidental scientific discovery, on the same scale as Dr. Whatsisname and the penicillin growing, unencumbered, on the back of a copper penny. Or not. Here it is: The molecules in tonic water are so powerful that they can penetrate the walls of an aluminium can with enough force to produce a full-scale geyser effect. This is all speculation of course, since I didn't actually observe it, but doesn't every scientific discovery begin as speculation? After careful examination of the evidence I arrived at this conclusion.

Last night, in a rare moment of industry, I decided it was time to rid my apartment of the many weeks' worth of putrefying filth I had allowed to accumulate since the purchase of the coma-inducing couch. I began with the fridge. Not too bad actually - some questionable leftovers, half a bottle of recently-expired Newman's Own, three liquefied Brussels sprouts (I think) and enough onion skins to stuff a queen size mattress, but miraculously, no stink. (Note to self: The reason you don't have a boyfriend might have something to do with the reek of your breath resulting from eating all those onions. I'm just saying.) I moved on to the bathroom - soap scum, lime, rust, a plug of hair in the shower drain - the usual suspects. Vile, to be sure, but understandable. Then, when I probably should have packed it in, put on my jams and curled up on the White Wondercouch to gorge myself on snack foods and watch The Biggest Loser (yes, I see the hypocrisy, no, I don't care), I decided, in a blinding flash of inspiration, insanity or both, to mop and polish the kitchen floor. I opened the pantry/ utility cupboard door and the broom fell, obediently, into my hands. As I swept, I was appalled, but hardly surprised, by the festering heap of dust and grit that had lain scattered all over the tile floor which connects the bathroom, hall and kitchen. The breeze created when I closed the bathroom door blew it across the expanse of tile so that it rolled like a tumbleweed in a John Wayne film. I brushed it into the dustpan, emptied it into a bag and tied it securely so none of it could escape. It was when I opened the pantry again to get out the bucket and Vileda Twist Mop (the best mop ever - you can machine wash the mop head, not that I ever have) that I noticed, when I bent over to retrieve the bucket from behind a sack of potatoes and a beer case, that the box of corn flakes on the bottom shelf was covered in thick, viscous, transparent goo. What the f*ck, I wondered. A quick think and I was sure that I hadn't dropped anything sticky. I thought about tasting it, but I remembered chemistry class 1985, when the delicious Mr. Capeling emphasized that some of the deadliest toxins known to man are clear, colourless and tasteless. Although I was reasonably certain that there were no such poisons in my pantry, I wasn't taking any chances. Until five minutes before I hadn't thought there were any mysterious sticky messes in my pantry either. I pitched the corn flakes, took a quick look around, chalked it up to a spilled diet 7 UP and reached for the bucket. You can imagine my horror when I found the bucket stuck to the floor. I was beginning to worry. How is it possible to have a mess of this magnitude in one's flat and have absolutely no recollection of it whatsoever?

I took everything from the floor out of the pantry so that I could better assess the situation. There was a large petrified puddle of liquid sticky on the floor next to where the bucket had been and hundreds of droplets surrounding it. Something, I thought, isn't right. Whatever they sweeten diet 7 UP with isn't this sticky. I decided that the entire pantry would have to be purged, scrubbed and, quite possibly, fumigated before I settled for the night. Virtually everything on the bottom shelf had sticky splatters. I took all of it out and piled it on the countertop. The middle and top shelves weren't quite as bad - only a few cans, some bags of pasta and a sack of basmati rice were affected. I took everything out, piece by piece, and became more and more perplexed with each item. The gooey drips I spotted all down the wall were quite distressing. Then I cleared away a few packets of instant gravy mix (bought before I figured out that single people can simply pop into the colonel's and order a small gravy to go with their mashed potatoes), a box of macaroni and cheese (a staple of the single person's diet), two cans of Chunky Steak and Potato (the soup that eats like a meal), a jar of Madras simmering sauce (which I haven't tried yet but I'm sure is delicious) and a box of Multi Grain Cheerios (the best cereal ever). Behind all of that I found a forgotten clutch of five cans of tonic water, which led me to realize (a) I must clean out my pantry more often and (b) I must increase my gin consumption if perfectly good tonic water is being abandoned and forgotten. I took all of it out and when I picked up the last can of tonic I was stunned to discover that it was empty. Not slightly depleted. Not half full. Empty. Not enough moisture to fuel a decent kiss. Here's the kicker though : the tin was perfectly sealed. I examined it thoroughly for dents, cracks and puncture marks. Nothing. The ring top was still firmly in place. The seal was definitely intact. I suppose there exists the slightest possibility that it went into the pantry empty in the first place, but I'm certain I would have noticed when I took it out of the case. It must be the culprit, I decided. There was, of course, still the question of the sticky . Tonic water couldn't possibly be sticky, could it? It's water after all. I read the label, and again I was stunned to discover that one shitty little tin of tonic water has thirty four grams of sugar. Thirty. Four. Grams! How does something with thirty four grams of sugar not taste sweet? For years now I've been sucking back G & Ts like water at dinner parties, weddings and social events and wondering why my thighs rub together when all along I've been bathing my fat cells in concentrated sugar, completely oblivious. Needless to mention, I'll be drinking my gin with soda from now on.

The only conclusion I could draw from the whole fiasco was that the molecules in tonic water are so powerful that they can penetrate the walls of an aluminium can with enough force to produce a full scale geyser effect. If anyone reading this or the good people at Schweppes can offer another explanation, I'm all ears.

There is a silver lining to this story : Now that I have purged, scrubbed and sanitized my pantry I don't have to do it next month as part of my spring cleaning routine, freeing up much more time for slouching on the White Wondercouch, listening to the chirping of the birds and sipping gin and sodas.

New Couch : The Death of Motivation

I'm not sure exactly why but I haven't been motivated to write since before Christmas. I suppose it might have something to do with the lovely new couch I bought and have not wanted to lift my backside off of since the day it was delivered. After years of slouching on the ages-old green monster until there was an arse-shaped dent the diameter and depth of a meteor crater, I decided that, money permitting or not, it was time to look for something half comfortable. I quickly found a beautiful, reasonably priced, cream-coloured (one of the perks of not having children is that it allows you the luxury of having cream-coloured things) three-seat sofa which I snapped up immediately. I arranged to have it delivered but, in my drunken excitement, I failed to make arrangements to have the green monster removed. The upshot is that for two long weeks I lived with both of them crammed into a living room the size of an egg carton until finally, after calling every charity in the known universe, none of which were remotely interested in an ages-old green couch with a sizeable dent and a large wadge of carpentry glue melded into the upholstery, I wrestled the sucker into the elevator and down four floors to the parking lot. I was sure that someone would be able to use it, after all, the pullout mattress still had plenty of wear left in it, but the lady at the Sally Ann assured me that they don't accept even the most pristine sofa beds due to health codes. You could never be sure what went on in sofa beds, she said. I assured her that none of that had gone on in it, or anywhere else in my apartment for quite some time, to which she replied "I hear ya, sister", chuckled and hung up. I rang the people at city hall and informed them that there would be a large item for pick up on garbage day and the lovely woman who answered the phone seemed quite impressed that I had taken the initiative and warned them. Sadly, she apparently did not relay the message to the bin men as it sat there gathering snow and who knows what else for nine days, a grim reminder of my years of discomfort. I can only assume that the bin men eventually grew tired of looking at it too and finally removed it.

Anyway, my point is that I have hardly written lately. I've scribbled down bits and pieces here and there but my usual drive to get 1000 words a day, even 1000 words of drivel, left me. I told myself that everyone takes some down time after the holidays. It's the de rigeur January slump. But it's now well into February and, if I'm being completely honest, I have just become lazy. I have never had an eight week dry spell. If I don't write for two days I begin to worry that I have dried up and have absolutely nothing to offer the literary fraternity and my time might be better spent writing warning labels on cigarette packets or assembly instructions for cheap bookcases at Ikea. Those of you who have read bits of the Effing Novel From Hell might agree. But the laziness must stop.

I am a firm believer that inspiration is not something that strikes like some divine bolt from the blue. Rather, it comes from hours, often days, of slogging through umpteen pages of shit until one little nugget of truth starts a chain reaction and you're off. No more sitting on my can, watching reruns and stuffing myself with things that are bad for me and lamenting about my utter lack of talent. Time to extract the digit, get out a pen and turn off the television. I have umpteen pages of shit to write.