Sadness endures like a stench, cloying. Christmas is over, and now it is just cold and damp
We watch ITV3 drama, with shows filmed in real summer and adverts in fake sunshine, and ache. Sadness upon sadness. Will it ever be sun again?
Upon our trip to Tesco’s today, we decided to cheer ourselves up with an old friend, Dettol.
We got home, shut the curtains to keep out the dark, again, and put the fire on to keep out the cold, again, and the wife AKA Mrs Gin held it tight against her for the longest of times, seeking some kind of comfort.
I opened it (the Dettol, not Mrs Gin. (That ship has sailed)), and sniffed deep. It smelt amazing.
Just so we are doubly clear we are talking about Dettol and not any part of Mrs Gin
It smells like a hand grenade.
Dettol has the most clinical- and therefore the best- of all the smells of legally available bleaches on sale today.
It makes my house smell like a hospital, and for that I will love it forever. After we playfully wrestled it out of Mrs Gin’s clutches and she went back to fucking Mumsnet
Seriously, look at the mess that accumulates around her? She’d been there for literally ten minutes before she ‘life of grimed’ the sofa. Can you imagine how difficult it is to live with that?
On the other hand, to be fair, she did offer to paint her nails for her Dettol photoshoot. But that mess, though, it’s not enough. It’s just not enough.
Alone and bitterly, we went to the kitchen and cleaned.
At 3.56pm today I found the cure for depression. Forget prozac, forget excercise, or recreational drugs. Forget even a stiff G and T. Instead choose Dettol.
The most brutal of nurses, the smell is uncompromising and relentless. Like Mary Poppins having ‘Roid rage. I fucking love it.
One slug of that in the dishwasher (I was dishwashering the hoover at the time), one into the cistern of the down stairs toilet – one down the sink – because why the fuck not? – and one into the mop bucket and the kids were down going ‘Blimey what’s that smell’
I did not care, I was poisitively jaunty again
“Let her make a mess” I thought. “I can cope”
“Let the sun cower” I thought “I can cope”
“Let the kids make a mess in the toilet that would make a UN inspector tremble” I thought “I can..”
Well, you get the idea.
I shall be writing to Mr Hunt first thing on Monday. Close the wards, the clinics and the counselling centres, Mr Hunt, and instead take one swimming pool, one ducking chair and one huge bottle of dettol. Line up the depressed, give them a quick dunking and then watch as they walk into the changing rooms with a jaunty spring in their step, knowing all is right with the world.
No need to thank me.
I could confine my wife in one of the empty asylums, and she could make her mess in there.