Things fall apart. Things fall apart like a foxtrot

Slow, slow, fast.

Life is slow. Life is fast. And time is revealed to be a lie. Phyisics says it is a steady, linear progression. But it’s not. It’s not at all. Inside each moment is another moment, a drop within a drop. Time refracts randomoly through them.  ‘Dying is like climbing a hill’ said Ruth Rendall.  But living is like that, too.

This is a review of the new Vileda supermop replacement mop. But really it is about time.

Remember Multipmap? Remember freeserve web addresses like All these things come and go. Explode and disappear. All of these things. All these massive things. Sometimes their coming is explosive and their disappearance is gradual. Like Tony Slattery. Remember him? He was everywhere in the 90s, like a deflating balloon in a small room. What the fuck happened to him? Now he’s nowhere. Explosive and then gradual. And sometimes things are slow, slow and then quick. Like mobile phones, we suppose. We remember sneering when people talked on them in public, and now they’re everywhere. Like dying, too. And like dirt.

Things fall apart. Slow slow, fast

We pride ourselves -wrongly- on our cleanliness. We obsesss over order, and meaning. But we are blinded by gradients. Gradual degradation. Our relatonships, our goals, our mop.

Our mop is fucking filthy. We hadn’t noticed until yesterday. Every morning when Mrs Gin and the children leave the house, we sit with a coffee. We drink only Rwandan coffee and we sit there in silence, and sip. Then we mop and our day begins. Most often we mop with Detoll over Linen Fresh. This is simply because Mrs Gin has sensationally banned it. She says it smells too clinical. How can something smell TOO clinical? Riddle us that one.  So we mop with it anyway, in spite of her.  To spite her, if we are being honest.

Anyway, yesterday as we mopped, we saw. Our mop was filthy. We had not noticed it over the months. What had been new and clean had become old and dirty. Slowly it must have happened. For we prided ourselves on the cleanliness of our mop.

Now look at it:

It had been so new, once.  We distinctly remember replacing the previous one with the one that is now old and dirty.   Once it was new and then it was dirty and we hadn’t even noticed.  It shames us, the degradation, the unnoticed changes.


Replacing it was simple and satisfying.  Immediately we went to Tescos.  (Dreadful.  Far worse than Sainsburys, but far better than the loathesome Ocado.  (We bought £150 of food from Ocado once.  It came on Friday and at least £100 of it was best before the following Monday.  Unacceptable))

Simple, despite the text on the back of the packet. Look at all these words, crammed in together like that. It’s like the Doomeday book:


The actual replacing of the mop was sadly unrecorded as Mrs Gin REFUSED to hold the camera.  ‘Not the BLOODY website again’.  Unacceptable.  Replacing it reminded me of ‘The Day of the Jackal’ when he assembles his sniper rifle to shoot his wife in the head.  The President of France, sorry.  He didn’t shoot his disobedient wife, he went after the President of France. We were projecting there.


Edward Fox / the jackal is our all time #2 hero.  The man we aspire to be.  So that was a massive plus.  Then we had a valedictory mop (albeit using Linen Fresh as Mrs Gin was in and, with her temper, we dared not the Dettol).  Fantastic

But afterwards, it’s new.  The mop is new and clean again.  For how long though, for how long?

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *