This Old And Broken House

>> Jan 25, 2010

I wrote a song recently to the tune of This Old House, called The Song of The Slovenly Housewife, which got published by the lovely people at Powder Room Graffiti.

The song came to be because increasingly, as I walk around this house of mine, I find myself humming that tune, This Old House.  Let me show a few of the reasons why.


 If I could just divert your attention past the unwashed dinner and breakfast dishes that I may or may not get around to bunging in the dishwasher later, you'll notice something at the back.  That's right, those are our toothbrushes.


Because, thanks to small children thinking climbing in it was such good fun despite the constant yells and shouts from me, our bathroom sink is hanging off the wall.

We've been washing our teeth in the kitchen for around two months now.

Even with damageable things having been relocated to high shelves or the inside of my wardrobe, there is still plenty left for our children to vandalise.




Take this border for example, oh wait, you can't, my kids already did.










 But at least they are artistic, right?

I just wish they didn't have to be quite SO artistic all over the walls and furniture.



Then there's the cracked windows like this one (surprisingly nothing to do with the kids)





And this one so cracked that it gets frozen condensation in between the panes.  (Again no children involved)










Oh, and the smashed in to a million tiny pieces (some of which we never did find as you can see from the little holes) and laboriously glued back together light fitting. (There was a child involved in this one but it wasn't mine).




And who could forget the kitchen bench that grandpa sat on and snapped in half.












And if you are wondering about the layer of grime that seems to coat everything thing in our house, it's not just because of my slovenly house cleaning skills or my ASBO darling children, but has a lot to do with this beast here.

The wood burning heating system for our house.


Which kicks out layer upon layer of soot which I have to clean up several times a day lest it becomes trampled through our house along with the inevitable tiny, foot burrowing, splinters and irritating sofa clinging pieces of lichen.



Is it any wonder the last line of my song is the way it is?
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