Saturday, 14 February 2015

The fetid flannel

The shower has broken yet again. We have oodles of freezing cold water but no hot. I blame the electrics which are straight out of W Heath Robinson. I should do something about the electrics but the only reliable electrician in the village is straight out if A League of Gentlemen, complete with beige overalls with his name embroidered on the top pocket. He's only happy if he can spend his day between floor boards or in your loft. Sometimes you forget he's there and go to bed to the sound of wierd scrabbling noises. I digress.

We are fortunate enough to have a second bathroom in She-ra's room with a hand held mains supplied water. It's ok.

However today I was in a rush and opted for what I call a Carrie wash ( Homeland)  That is the hot flannel to those who don't know.  There is something rather comforting about a hot flannel on your face. Maybe it's the childhood memories it evokes. The warmth of flannel is most pleasant.

Squeezing out the excess water from said hot flannel, ready to enjoy a small comfort you can imagine my horror when I started to gag.

Within milliseconds I realised that this was no ordinary flannel. This flannel had been used prior. By my 20year old son post football match and was full of rank stake sweatiness. 

My nasal hairs were singed. My gagging reflex in overload. No amount of scrubbing, soap or perfume could remove the odour from my soul. I can still smell it now.