So I went a little crazy yesterday. The tile grout in the bathroom isn't too clean, and it finally got to me. So I attacked the dingy grout with a zeal that can only be described as obsessive-compulsive. The irony of Sonja's obsession with cleanliness is that she lacks the really heavy-duty cleaning chemicals to make it possible. They didn't even have a proper scrub brush.
We've got one now. And as far as the harsh chemicals are concerned, apparently it's a no-go because the bathtub is enamel. Damn. Maybe I'll sneak some Comet back in my suitcase. The grout is really gross. I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed for the better part of an hour yesterday and didn't even make a dent. Apparently the bathroom smelled really nice though, so you know, I got that going for me.
And, of course, I was spurred on by the wonderful playlist I had rockin' whilst flinging bleach foam all over myself. Any time my iPod decides to follow boy band fluff with semi-hard punk is cause for celebration and a renewal of the fervor with which I'm devoting myself to the task at hand.
I've decided I'd rather take the bus everywhere. Provided I can get a seat, and it doesn't take twice as long as usual to get me to where I need to go. Taking the tube is sort of like magic transportation. You ride the escalator down, snap your fingers, ride the escalator up, and POOF! You're at your destination. Or at least you're back outside, within walking distance of your final destination. You don't really get to see all the fun stuff between points A and B. The bus, on the other hand, lets you catch a glimpse of the wonders between tube stops. And it's cheaper.
Today I'm swearing at postmodernism. If somebody out there understands it, can you please give me a call? Not only can I not make heads or tails of what it's supposed to be all about, what I can understand seems like a big load of crap. Poo. I'll stick to Ranke.
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