Who’s a Slut?

Have I invented the next popular party game? No, we’ve just been cleaning Daughtermouse’s room that she vacated to go to college last September. Her peremptory clean was just bagging up cloths and a laptop whilst mesmerised by her ever present mobile. Mothermouse began yesterday arranging the major objects and I follower up hovering today. MM delving under the bed found her birth certificate over which we had had a somewhat testy correspondence with the Student Loans Company re them not returning it. She then pulled out a small black suitcase. She wondered, as we would all do, what she might find, photographs, schoolbooks, snorkels from the last holiday? On opening it she found it empty apart from a cat, our Britney, who looked up with her casual, “And you are?” Then it was my turn with the final hoovering. People of a delicate disposition should look away now. DM obviously won’t bend down for anything less than a 50p piece. I collected £1.22 in small change, which on the way home had me clutching my trousers to keep them up. Two spoons and a fork liberally smeared with the six-month old remains of a chocolate trifle, numerous dog ends and countless plastic tubes that roll-your-own filters come in. The rest was an assortment of old tissues, wrappers, hair bands, nail varnish and one or two bits of jewellery. Either she has an eyesight condition where the floor is rendered invisible or she won’t bend down for anything less valuable than a River Island top. But then again it amazes me how quickly a newly purchased ‘oh you look lovely in it’ garment joins the carpet of litter. In fact it’s quite likely she won’t ever notice if there’s an elephant in the room because it would be covered in a pile of Top Shop cast offs. The downstairs toilet/shower room was equally grim until at the fifth time of asking she did actually clean it. Perhaps that’s it, perhaps we’re being to hard on sluts. Perhaps they just have trouble bending down.