World of more

After three months of inaction I finally went house-hunting on Saturday. Pathetic. For the price of 20 million penny chews (and that's retail, not cost price) I can get a tiny little two bedroom flat in Kilburn - hardly a salubrious area of London. They had some nerve calling it two bedroom, it was more that there were two rooms that beds could have fitted, in much the same way as a 18 tonne lorry fits in a terraced-house front room following a brake failure. Or, or (and I'm spitting feathers in actual indignant and arrogant rage about how little 00,000 gets you, I'm especially angry because it's my 00,000 and therefore should be able to secure a penthouse with water feature in Belgravia because, godammit that's what I deserve), or I could get a slightly larger two bedroom flat in Brondesbury with a commanding (like a signal box) view of the Jubilee, Metropolitan and railway lines and one of those horrible kitchens that's actually in the lounge. Grrrr. Looks ...

Washing clothes confuses me massively. Sure, I understand the basics; don't wash your whites with your darks, don't wash it at too high a temperature, hang things out straight (a concept my flatmate has a lot of trouble assimilating, choosing instead to leave weighty bundles of crumpled, damp washing atop the clothes horse for days or weeks and somehow, impossibly, avoiding it smelling like piss), and I change my pants and socks everyday too. But for things that aren't constantly pressed up against smelly areas I just don't get how often. I mean, obviously I've twigged that if it's dirty and smelly and in danger of becoming sentient, it deserves a visit to Mr Zanussi. But if it doesn't smell, or it's only slightly crumpled, only guilt makes me put T-shirts with two days use in the washing machine. And suits utterly baffle me. I own black and dark grey suits that don't show the dirt much and don't seem to smell much either, so how do I know w...