The Kitchen

The Kitchen is foul. To someone's standards it may well be an acceptable example of 'lived in' disarray, but not to me. To me it's dirty, and untidy, unorganised and disgusting. There's no structure to the mess, nothing seems to have its own place, even the rubbish has escaped the confines of a makeshift bin as if they too detest their abode.

Remains of un-wiped food debris litter edges and crevices while stains of brown and yellow stare unashamed at each other as they spread and grow. Casting a reluctant glance around I wonder "Who has two washing up bowls?" and both full too, sitting half hidden beneath an open sink surface, on a tiled floor dull and dusty, no not dusty, carpeted with animal hair. The tiles seem to have grown a coating of sparse hair that collects and gathers in unpleasant clumps, a broom is no where to be seen; hardly surprising.

There's no workable surface, and what little space there is I fear for the growth of bacteria that must thrive there unseen to the human eye. Left over grease, some sort of sauce residue, unwashed pots and pans, unwashed everything! Is there anything clean? Do I dare take that festering sponge and clean something? Would it really be clean afterwards? Should I boil that kettle with the brown stain down the side and hope the water is hot enough to sterilise something. I reach into the grotesque pile of kitchen ware that has been contained to the sink, rather than bend down to those two washing bowls, I roll up a sleeve and dip two finger tips beneath a plate, the end of a what I hope is a fork sticking out, I pinch it and pull and with a cringe and stomach churn I drop it back suddenly, snatching back my hand from the germs and grease. I cannot stand it. How long must it have been there to have hardened and crusted to such a state! I retreat and hastily wipe dry hands with an anti bacterial wipe, I'll go out for something to eat. I cannot and will not put myself through such an ordeal that is that kitchen.