However my beautiful en suite only arrived 2 years ago, once we'd moved. Before then I had the joy of sharing a tiny bathroom with my younger siblings. My brother in particular, as my mother frequently lets him know, has always been "such a grub!".
To give you an idea after having moved to our new house, in which his bedroom also has an en suite, his bathroom hadn't been cleaned for god knows how long. My mother, who is such a tolerant person had obviously had enough after she found 9 empty toilet rolls, along with a collection of hair and dried skin in the corner of his bathroom. I shared a bathroom with him for almost 15 years. I know the horrors of a shared bathroom.
My bathroom has looked bad in the past. One morning after I'd had a night out with friends I had set up camp kneeling in front of the toilet. Suffice to say it was a vomit inducing (ha ha..) sight. My strategy to deal with my bathroom was one of denial. Mum couldn't understand how I had managed to live with a toilet that looked like that for 3 weeks. Little does she know that the toilet down the hall is closer than my bathroom for everyday 'activity' and has the huge benefit that I don't have to clean it.
Now my bathroom story takes place about 6 months after having turned 18. My parents decided that as I was an independent adult I should wash my clothes, clean my bedroom and bathroom and cook dinner. Fair enough, right? Well having had all of this more or less done for you for most of your life and being the centre of the universe, it didn't go so well. The first time I did the washing since the newly instated laws was once I realised I'd picked up every item of clothing off the floor to re-wear at least twice each. The following day I did 5 loads of washing.
In this instance, after about a month and a half of my mum nagging "Clean your bloody Bathroom!" I know, what a slob, but it just seemed like a such a monumental task and I've got better things to do with my weekend. So under threats of being kicked out of home, and a nasty screaming match, one fine Saturday I finally got stuck in and cleaned. Three hours of grout scraping, metal shining and general sanitising had me covered in sweat and chemicals.
During this gruelling test of my focus and determination, my mum had been out of the house, running children to sports and doing stuff for the business. By the time she gets home I've finished cleaning the sink, bench top, floor and I'm just finishing the toilet. It looks amazing, and I'll be murdered by my friends for saying this, and its satisfying. I'm kneeling in front of the toilet, toilet brush in hand as mum comes in, "You haven't cleaned the bloody shower screens!".
Parents. Don't you just love them?
