'The Smallest Room' by Grace Palmer

You never clean, you slack-arse, so my mould spreads.  

You might rub your finger along the silicone in despair and later attack with your squirty mould gun – such power, such strength, such hope - but I gather skirts of dirt, lost hair, toenail clippings, the fat scented chemicals from shampoo.

All these treasures muster under the bath panel or lost places. Small rodents nest in my secret spaces.

The loo pedestal (delusions of grandeur) is sticky around its ceramic foot, prone like a lone tree in a dog walker’s park.

I flag up my despair with limed taps, water choked through the shower head, signal distress by vomiting the contents of the medicine cabinet when you dare to open it. 

The mirror you stare into is dotted with projectiles from your dental floss experiments.

Oh, oh, here you are, centre stage, fully clothed, thank goodness, so you won’t be flinging your trousers onto my radiator rack for your daily ablute. 

What’s this, a tool box?

Wait! The bath panel cracks open. 

I release a shower of silver fish, tails swishing like sparkling armadillos. You hold lemon in one hand, vinegar in another. 

The hoover tickles, sucks me dry of comfort. Now you scrub the floorboards, throw peppermint-soaked cotton wool balls into the corners. The mice patter away, disgusted. 

There’s no need to be hasty - 

The lemon is stuck over my waterfall tap, the shower head descaled. Pink paste is smeared over the basin. 

Your scalpel cuts into the bath seal CAREFUL! 

I am scalped.

I see it. Mrs Hinch’s book is responsible.

You do know don’t you, that she began cleaning as an antidote to betrayal? 

WARNING

Whoever you bring into this bathroom will not be fooled by your – brutal - deep clean.