Late night rantings

It's the early hours of wednesday morning, well really it's still tuesday night, and I'm still awake although that's hardly surprising, I'm rarely asleep before 1:30 most nights, I just don't fall asleep otherwise.

My parents are driving down tomorrow to have a look at my poor little car and figure out the best solution to a nasty problem. I hate being carless. Even though the man from the body shop said it should be fine for short distances, I'm too sad and scared to drive it at the moment, just in case it overheats and I end up somewhere on a narrow side road, cars whizzing past far too close for comfort.

So I choice to avoid the possibility and use any other means possible, although at least most of my uni stuff is cancelled this week or missable, meaning that I only have to go in on Friday for a seminar and then I'm straight on the train up to London for the weekend from campus. Hopefully if all goes well tomorrow, the car will go in then or Thursday and I'll be able to pick it up, rejuvenated, early next week.

I've got so much cleaning to do tomorrow morning, besides the small mountain of washing up that I've accumulated over the last three days, including all the of the crockery and cutlery from the sunday roast that's still sitting on the living room table. I know you're probably going eww, gross but I'm currently trying to prove a point to my flatmate, who thinks nothing of leaving plates encrusted with ketchup and the remainders of her cereal and milk rotting in the living room for days at a time, or at least until I clean it up.

So tired am I of this daily ritual of picking up after others, that I decided to launch a campaign of education. Previously, whilst living with a boy who saw nothing wrong with leaving pasta in pans for a fortnight and considered licking his plate to be cleaning it [seriously, I'm not joking], my flatmates and I resorted to leaving his pans and dishes under his door once they had exceeded the grace period of a week. Once his naked foot had made contact with some very furry blue curry, he at least kept his filthy pots in his room, which probably explains the smell that wafted down the hallway whenever he opened his door.

Two years down the line, I have devised a new plan of action. I have instead assumed the role of accumulating as much dirty crockery as I possibly can, a role that my flatmate has apparently taken to with aplomb. So far, I'm doing reasonably well at this too- in the living room sits a tray loaded with 3 dirty plates, 4 bowls, a mug of gravy, two glasses devoid of Coke, two empty jars of mint sauce, a can of stale beer and heaps of spoons, knives and forks. In the kitchen, I have stopped washing up whatever I use in the process of making my meals, stacking an ever increasing pile next to the sink. I am basically becoming a slob, although not really. Whilst I can not wash up, unfortunately I still have to take out the bins, sort and put out the recycling, clean the oven, floor and surfaces because I know that if I don't, she certainly won't be moved to.

Unfortunately, I'm not sure that the parentals will agree with my methods, so tomorrow morning will dawn with me standing at the sink, elbow high in washing up.

Joy.