Full to the brim

15 January 2001
Jamie could do with a bigger house.

As I was rounding off my weekly ablutions in the bath today, I reached for the pumice stone to scrub my soles. It wasn't long before I realised I had mistakenly grasped a small, deceased grey rodent, whose beneficial effects on my verrucas were disappointing to say the least. As I rubbed harder, it began to fragment, suggesting it had met with mortality considerably longer than a few hours previously. Perhaps it was time to change the water.

I like to think of myself as economical with energy. And cleaning products. Why waste hours each week removing a harmless layer of dust that will reappear in minutes? Why this continual obsession with rearranging one's living quarters, packing away garments so they are hidden from view rather than leaving them open for daily selection (not that I tend to vary my daily attire, but I like to keep my options open)? It's all fuss generated by the exploitative types at Unilever, Procter & Gamble et al. I prefer my freedom.

Of course, some people are a tad surprised by my lifestyle. But you get used to it, after a while. Get into the groove, as it were. It's just a bit of a shock to the system the first time you step over the threshold, they say. I do warn them I'm a bit of a hoarder - don't really like to throw things away, you never know when they could come in useful, see - but I still see that moment of hesitation in their eyes, a narrowing of the nostrils before they set foot inside my home. I know they're going to feel like that, so I make sure the main vestibule is as uncluttered as possible. Thankfully I have quite a large home, so I still have plenty of room for all the stuff I accumulate. 'All your gubbins', Molly used to call it, in that gently mocking tone of hers. There wasn't nearly so much back then though, just a few bits and bobs I was hanging on to, or looking after for friends. Now, some rooms are getting full to the brim. Overflowing, almost.

It doesn't help that so many of my guests appear quite incapable of clearing up after themselves. When Molly wasn't well, I could understand her not helping about the house, but at least she'd do her best to finish her meals, and the cups of tea and coffee I made. Always polite like that, taking care not to offend me. But when someone like Gerry just sits around all day, not lifting a finger, that gets me - well, I was going to say angry, but that's a bit extreme. It's just frustrating that someone can take advantage of one's hospitality to such an extent, he's been under my roof for five weeks now and not a word of thanks. Where was he when I took him in? Living on the street, pissing in alleyways, as good as dead to the world. I did him a favour bringing him here with the others, but you wouldn't know it from his attitude. Sullen, I suppose, is the word I'd use. Just that same expression on his face the whole time, like a spoilt teenager, never looking one in the eyes. Evasive; shifty. Not to be trusted.

I forget how many of them there are now. Probably about ten or so that have come here over the past year or so, and Molly of course. It breaks my heart to see her the way she is now. She doesn't touch her food, or her drinks. Dishes and mugs stacked around her, still loaded with goodness. I keep telling her she's not to leave a morsel, not to leave a drop, she's got to eat or she'll never get better. But she hardly even seems to look at it now. Occasionally I'll see one of the plates has been touched, the cutlery moved, some of the food gone, and maybe her spirits are back. But it's usually just one of the cats that have decided to move in, picking at scraps; I tell them it's all Molly's and they're not to touch it, but they're just dumb animals following their instincts. Can't blame them for wanting to stay alive.

After my bath I have a shave, but the razor's pretty blunt so I throw it into the loo. It nestles on top of the pile of paper that's built up in there, caked rock hard like those papier maché hot air balloons we used to make in art. I remember the look on Donna's face when she saw my bathroom. She was only seventeen, jumped at the chance of a roof over her head. Wasn't quite so happy when she saw the state of the place, the lemonade bottles I'd had to piss in when the toilet became unusable. Looked at me like I was some kind of monster. She hasn't left, though, even when I told her about her parents crying on the news. I think she likes the company. Not that she'd admit it, but she's got quite attached to the place.

I manage to dig out another razor and finish the job. I get dry, and put on my best tie before I make the breakfast. I thought I'd make an effort for Molly today. It's our anniversary, you see. Twenty-three years ago we got married. Takes a lot to break up a relationship like that.