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This is a question How clean is your house?

"Part of my kitchen floor are thick with dust, grease, part of a broken mug, a few mummified oven-chips, a desiccated used teabag and a couple of pieces of cutlery", says Sandettie Light Vessel Automatic. To most people, that's filth. To some of us, that's dinner. Tell us about squalid homes or obsessive cleaners.

(, Thu 25 Mar 2010, 13:00)
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This question is now closed.

Gregory flies.
My friend had a pot noddle in his room for around 6 months. It started to grow its own life form. Its a wonder it didn't get up and walk to the bin itself! So we named it Gregory. This is why fruit flies will always be known as Gregory flies.
(, Wed 31 Mar 2010, 19:05, 3 replies)
Inspired by Sadarse's coffee mug
I have a mug, which I keep topped up near-constantly on my desk. This is because I am a teacher, and all that talking can take it's toll, leaving me parched.

This mug, visually, is a disgrace. As I am constantly using it, it gets washed up rather infrequently. And for that, you can read 'never'. Brown marks abound all around inside it, and it is generally highly unpleasant-looking. It became somewhat of a running joke among one of the classes that I teach. They would tell me how it was a health hazard, and as a science teacher, I should know better. I ignored these slurs on my good name, and slurped my tea with aplomb.

One day, we were studying microbes, and we did a practical where the students swab around for any nasty bacteria or fungi, grow them up on an agar plate, and therefore see what areas of the lab are cleanest and which should be quarantined immediately. This provided the ideal opportunity to test my mug-based bravado.

And what do you know? Out of the entire set of agar plates, the one from my mug had the least bacterial contamination of anywhere in the lab. Cleaner than any hands, cleaner than any desk top, entirely contamination-free.

Turns out, being dirty is fine.
(, Wed 31 Mar 2010, 18:27, 3 replies)
I Blame My Mother
Growing up, the house wasn't exactly a picture of cleanliness. We had many, many cats, gerbils, rabbits, guinea pigs etc, and the state of the house reflected this. I moved out when I was 17, and my ex wasn't the cleanest of people but coupled with two large dogs and no hoover, well this used to trigger manic moments of me moving appliances and scrubbing as if my life depended upon it (at 5'3" moving a large fridge/freezer without disturbing the noise of the telly was a personal achievement). My current place I've had since new and I try to keep spotless. My uni room has to be completely clean at all times or I get stressed out about it. I think that's because I can't bring myself to touch the communal kitchen. Even I have my limits about what I'll voluntarily touch, and some of the sights I've seen in there would make even Kim & Aggie squirm. Maybe it's rebellion against my ex and my mother's (lack of) cleaning standards, or maybe it's OCD. Either way, I always have to have a bottle of Dettol nearby, just in case.
(, Wed 31 Mar 2010, 17:24, Reply)
this is all I've got
No matter how hard we try, there are loads of clothes that need washing and putting up. And since our dishwasher broke, the dishes aren't done daily.

Apologies for no funny. But are my posts ever?
Didn't think so.
(, Wed 31 Mar 2010, 15:49, 5 replies)
Spot the Dirt
A friend of mine has a pretty incredible house which I have mentioned on here before (

It's a lovely place in the summer, they have a beautiful garden, and there's always cold beers in the fridge. His family is quirky, but a good laugh, and I get on with all of them really well. However, their house is fucking filthy. This suprises me, mainly because they have such a great place, but also because both of his parents are doctors (I know that isn't an indicator of cleanliness, but I would have thought basic hygiene).

-All of the lightswitches are brown. They just have never been cleaned. My mate calls me a snob, but I genuinely don't want to turn on the lights.

-We once found old yogurt in his dad's keyboard.

-The landing, and 2 bedrooms are full of shit from car boot sales, including (but not limited to) a vast number of retro consoles and games, computers dating back to 486's, a quantity of burnt monitors rescued from a surgery fire around 5 years ago, a giant inflatable palm tree, a sombrero and a spear. It's genuinely difficult to move around the top floor of the house through the junk. I remember once my mate's pet cockroaches escaped from their tank. This did not cause more than a mild annoyance to the household (I think my mum would have moved out)

The highlight for another mate of mine and myself is the cutlery drawer, however. This was the venue for the classic game 'spot the dirt', which amounted to singing 'spot the dirt' to the tune of 'catch the pigeon' from Wacky Races, whilst searching the drawer for miscellaneous food items. A standard game would usually turn up some shreddies, possibly a bran flake or two, and if you were lucky, some bread. Jackpot came one day though when, reaching for a large spoon at the back I uncovered an entire mushroom, which had been festering amongst the utensils for an undetermined period of time. My mate still protests that discoveries like this are 'normal', and i'm just a posh bastard.

Oh, and the house he lives in now has month old cat shit on the floor. Way over the line from 'quirkily untidy' into quite literally a shithole.
(, Wed 31 Mar 2010, 12:52, 15 replies)
I moved in with my mate a year or so ago

He had lived on his own for about 2 years, and so had got used to living by his own rules.

Fair enough.

The place was very unclean, and needed a day or two off work of me cleaning and scrubbing. Im not a fastidious type - but White bathroom tiles that were grey, a pool of fat at the bottom of the oven and mouldy food in the fridge might give you an idea of the grime i encountered.

One story sticks in my mind was when we decided to take turns making buttys for the next day in work for each other.

He went first, and make a quite tasty ham sandwichs for us both.

That night - it was my turn, upon looking in the fridge, there was a tub of 'I cant believe its not butter'. I reach in - pull the lid off and was greeted with a tub of green mouldy carpet....

.... with fresh knife marks where he had used it the day before...

(, Wed 31 Mar 2010, 12:50, Reply)
Does anyone else enjoy annoying OCD sufferers by moving their stuff?
Mrs Vagabond doesn't really have OCD, but definitely does have a thing about pens - they either have their lids on the top, or on the bottom, but ne'er the twain are separate.

Unless I've been in the office, obviously.

In which case the lids are all over the place, including some in a drawer, or a shoe, or similar.
(, Wed 31 Mar 2010, 12:14, 5 replies)
Yellowy brown, shit-stained peepee recepticle
A long time ago, just before we moved out of our second Uni flat, the landlord basically told us that there was no way we would be getting our deposit back as the place was a state.

This of course, was tantamount to throwing down the rubber gauntlet.

So we donned our cleaning attire and got down to business.

Now, during this time, one of our housemates decided to get a hangover which ended him up in hospital with a torn throat through vomiting too much - nice.

However, this meant that there were only two of us left to do all the cleaning. Not happy. But the challenge was on. After two days of constant scrubbing and spraying and hoovering, everything was looking pretty ship shape.

Apart from the toilet. That hadn't been cleaned since we moved in. Ugh.

We felt that our stupid hungover friend deserved a punishment for leaving us to the scrubbing. So we left him that toilet. We told him he had to do it as soon as he got back from the hospital or we'd lose our deposit.

We laughed as he knelt over the yellowy brown, shit-stained peepee recepticle, marigolds on, and started scrubbing. For about two seconds.

Then he vomited.


Over everything.

Still made him clean the bog when we got him back from the hospital though.

Length? About six inches of skid marks and a two foot bloodstain.
(, Wed 31 Mar 2010, 10:18, 2 replies)
my ex wife
kept a very tidy house , so tidy that it wasn't unusual to go for a shower and then find that clothes laid out on the bed to wear were now in the washing machine .
Like I said , ex wife .
(, Wed 31 Mar 2010, 9:20, Reply)
Scottish OCD
I have a Scottish friend who would best be described as beyond anal retention when it comes to cleanliness. In fact, B doesn't poo very often because he's loathe to get his ringpiece dirty, as it would take at least half an hour to wipe, clean, bleach and shine.

Last summer, he had a lunchtime barbeque for ten or so people and this went on until about three in the morning. I end up pulling his flatmate and so stayed the night. We're woken at 7.30 by the frantic noise of cleaning from below.

It was a miracle that B had got any sleep at all - normally he'd sit on the edge of his seat, rivulets of sweat pouring down his face, gnashing his teeth and chewing his lip if one plate with a few crumbs was sitting in the sink. However, he'd managed to hold out until 7.30 without getting his rubber gloves on and having an orgy of cleaning. So, I'm lying there with this girl in a post-coital stupor and the vacuuming starts. Outside the window.

Yes, B was vaccuming the garden.

'What the f*** are you doing?'
'There's some dust and a couple of stones on the terrace.'
'That's because it's outside - it's the garden.'
'Well, I can't be doing with it. I won't have a dirty patio.'

I gave up. Trying to stop an OCDer from cleaning is like coming between a fat man and pies - just not worth the risk.
(, Wed 31 Mar 2010, 8:58, 1 reply)
Just got told off by the missus
for leaving the toilet "in a state".
I've been sick with vomiting and diarrhea for two days now... It's not like I'm doing it on purpose.
(, Wed 31 Mar 2010, 3:08, 3 replies)
i accidentally chucked half a bottle of red white over a beige wall
this is like death for painted walls.

i say i did it. i suppose its technically my fault. we collapsed on the bed, drunk and giggling. feeble woman that i am, i couldnt open the wine bottle. so i passed it over to the boyfriend who opened it ... far too successfully... all over the mattress, pillows, and up the walls.

scrubbing a white enough to remove a red wine stain takes off the paint. inevitably, i ended up buying some more paint and a tiny paintbrush. its not quite the same colour but im hoping the land lord thinks the darker patches are caused by damp...

i dont feel bad. afterall, they left a whopping big hole in the window sill by my bed for ages - in winter! one night i had a nightmare that the roof was caving and woke up with the bed absolutely soaking because water had been getting into the wall.

above my bed, someone has carved a message for the last tenant. im assuming her name is helen or helena because it says 'hello hel -'.

student accomodation is poor. they deserve us to carve our names into the plaster and pour wine over the walls. i only hope the next tenant comes up with a more inventive way of vandalising the room.
(, Wed 31 Mar 2010, 1:33, 1 reply)
God Bless the Asian House Gecko ...
Living in a subtropical region of Australia, as I do, I have come to know and love the Asian House Gecko.

It embodies the finest elements of the South East Asian character. Unobtrusive, industrious and damn good at sneaking into the country.

Prior to its polite invasion any Australian house in the subtropics, no matter how clean (observe tenuous link), was often invaded with cockroaches the size of your beer coaster and spiders the size of a bread and butter plate. This is NOT an Antipodean exaggeration. Those bastards will make off with your first born if you don't splat them quickly with your flip flop.

But since the arrival of the Asian House Gecko, who eat spiders and cockroaches (bless), the subtropics have become so much more livable.

So what if they're an invasive non-indigenous species. That's just misplaced Species-ist propaganda and still smarting over the Cane Toad Fiasco.

I love the Asian House Gecko.
(, Wed 31 Mar 2010, 0:43, 6 replies)
You can go too far the other way... Matt (for this is not quite his name).

Most HGV drivers like a tidy cab. You live in it all week, so it keeps things comfortable.

Matt was something else. He would wash the seat covers, the bunk curtains and the bunk cover every 2 weeks. He would keep the floor rubber black with shoe polish. He would climb on top of the cab and polish the roof. He would jack up the cab and polish the engine.

Then he got a job on tarmac. Now, most guys on the blackstuff are fairly mucky. It's black, and it sticks solid within 30 minutes of cooling. It covers the back end, the sides and the wheels. Matt worked out that if he went round with a rag soaked in diesel straight after unloading, it would come off. Bearing in mind he might do 5 loads a day, he had a 25 foot tipper body and he still had all the other stuff to do as well.

Only tipper driver I know who has a lace pelmet, and changes it every day.
(, Wed 31 Mar 2010, 0:35, Reply)
I have
a personal coffee mug that I haven`t washed in a few months, thinking that the just boiled water will take care of any bugs. It has since taken on the patina of coffee, covering the entire cup. Either that or some bugger switched it for the coffee coloured mug in the same set. Bastards
(, Tue 30 Mar 2010, 23:50, 3 replies)
It's only a fucking plate.
I am resident in the Colonies at the moment, and prior to obtaining my own, well lush bachelor pad in a playboy mansion stylee (well, more accurately a one bedroom apartment in the city centre), I was forced to live in a shared house, with a chap I will affectionately refer to as OCD man.

OCD man, or bald peado looking bastard (as he is known to his friends and the constabulary), was concerned with keeping the house in a state of near perfect tidiness.

Not in itself a problem, as I'm not that much of a slovenly bastard, I may do dishes in the morning as opposed to the evening when I've had my dinner, but otherwise am pretty tidy.

Not good enough for OCD man however. One evening I had recently finished making my dinner, which was a microwave meal of some variety.
Upon finishing my repast of cheap own-brand muck, I thought the best way to conclude my meal would be to have a Becks and a Marlboro Red.

As I was sitting outside smoking my Marlboro and drinking my beer, I saw a furtive, baldy, gleam on the periphery of my vision, it was OCD man.

As it was the middle of the night, and there were no minors around for him to solicit, it became clear he wished to engage me in conversation.

"Is that your plate and fork placed on the bench?" He not at all civily enquired.

"Indeed it is my good man, I shall be washing it momentarily once I have finished my beer and smoked my delightful cigarette" Quoth I.

This seemed to perturb him quite considerably, as he turned a startling shade of puce and said "That's not good enough".

I would like to say, readers, that at this point I glassed him in the face, whilst wearing a union jack draped around my shoulders and saying "stitch that you colonial bastard".

Regrettably, I did not. I did however repeatedly get off with the bird that also shared with us, who went a bit mental, hence I moved out.

The moral of this story: Don't go to the Colonies, they're all mad as a sack of badgers.

- No apologies for length or shit-ness of story.
(, Tue 30 Mar 2010, 22:22, 2 replies)
My girlfriend asked me to do the washing up last night...
Craziness! I had to tell her that I'd already done it - twice, in fact: once when we were first together and once last summer!
(, Tue 30 Mar 2010, 22:16, 2 replies)
There was a wasp in my bedroom the other day.
A wasp! Imagine that.
(, Tue 30 Mar 2010, 22:16, 3 replies)
The house is pretty tidy, but........
..... the car on the other hand is a complete mess. I changed jobs a while back and now I don't drive to work day in day out. I actually have to find excuses to take the care out. Problem is, I never cleaned the car out before I stopped using it every day.

The car's now stored in the underground car park of the hotel round the corner (live in a pedestrianized zone). the other day the hotel called up to ask if I'd abandoned my car there as people had expressed concern over its condition.
(, Tue 30 Mar 2010, 22:01, Reply)
I just woke up to find my computer desk crawling with ants! I have spent the last ten minutes squashing any I can see. I guess it's time to clear up all the empty drink cans and glasses and icy pole wrappers.
(, Tue 30 Mar 2010, 21:48, 19 replies)
Religious clean freak
I work with a guy who loves to clean. He is quite happy to stay an extra half hour a day to scrub anything he can get his hands on. To the rest of us he is just plain stupid, I mean admittedly he has no girlfriend and lives alone, has few friends and spends his day off cleaning his mums car. But staying at work ....unpaid? To fuckin CLEAN!!!!!

It is obvious to us that his favourite item to clean is the industrial dishwasher (any psych students let me know the relevence of a clean freak cleaning a cleaning machine pls) so of course we get it really dirty just to annoy him, he had a week off recently and the dishwasher was fed a few extra items, 4 litres of used cooking oil, a kilo of breadcrumbs, various fruits of old age, 200g pine nuts, a bag of porridge and 2 bottles of fairy liquid an hour before he came back. He rolled into work after a week spent cleaning windows and went straight to his beloved dishwasher. Suffice to say he was appalled at what he found, I believe he was close to tears. After he turned it on the extra fairy kicked in and made enough mess to keep him quiet for several hours.

We later found out that his church have installed a similar machine, he is now revered at his church for being able to show them how to take it all apart and clean it. The rest of us are attempting to hatch a plan to sabotage the church dishwaher.

I guess you have worked out that we don't do much real work
(, Tue 30 Mar 2010, 21:04, 13 replies)
Oh no you don't
Mrs. Cymrococh tells everyone how much she loves cleaning "that's amazing!" they say and look at me saying "aren't you lucky?".

No I'm fucking not.

She fucking hates cleaning, she just likes things to be clean. While cleaning she's the fucking Antichrist.
(, Tue 30 Mar 2010, 19:02, 2 replies)
A story wherein all the hard work is undone
It would be fair to say that whilst I'm not the cleanest of people, I do enjoy living in a clutter free environment. I get squiffey if people leave condiments out after a meal, and get awfully annoyed when someone makes a mess after I've tidied up.

This means I've never really had to do a proper full scale tidy up until I left my first flat.

In order to ensure that the entireity of our deposit was returned, my girlfriend and I cleaned our entire flat from top to bottom before moving out. This was a mammoth endeavour, and I was awfully proud of the results afterwards. We got the windows professionally cleaned, I cleaned the whole oven with Oven Pride (thus proving the slogan), used a toothbrush to clean the skirting boards and window sills, washed all the marks off the wall, shampooed the carpets and even used bicarbonate of soda to clean the beds. In short, we made the flat cleaner that it had been when we moved in.

Come the day of the inspection the buzzer goes, and the two friendly chaps pop in with their clipboards...

...and trail mud all over the carpets.

5 minutes into the inspection one of them turns round and notices it, picks up some on the end of his pen, looks at us. It was at this point my girlfriend said (in a way that would have any grown man grovelling) "it was you!".

We passed with flying colours.

(and the current tenants have a dreamcatcher in the window, I bet they're making a mess of our hard work!)
(, Tue 30 Mar 2010, 17:58, Reply)
The tale of BelladonnaAnodyne and the puppies...
A couple of years ago, my dad's two dogs (I hesitate to describe them as 'dogs' - although unmistakeably canine, they are both smaller than the cats and really get on my nerves. However, it is simpler to type 'dogs' than 'those little rat bastards', so I will stick with 'dogs') had puppies.

Now, I hate dogs (smelly, mithering, moulting balls of irritation) but I LURVE puppies, because they are small, walk funny and don't smell. These puppies were especially cute, because both their parents are so stupidly small, they were absolutley teenyfied. I had been the first to see them when they were born, and had named them all. There was Ranulph, Wodewick, Lester, Peeper and (my favourite) Boudicca.

Unfortunately, my dad and his wife had a holiday booked when the puppies were about a month old. When my dad goes on holiday, me and Mr. Anodyne look after the pub. That's not a problem, I can do it with my eyes shut (admittedly it would be more difficult with my eyes shut, but I think I could do it). But normally, the dogs are relocated somewhere so we don't have to bother with them. We couldn't do that this time, because of the tidgy ones. Before we actually started looking after them, I was so enamoured with the little buggers I was actually quite excited. I was soon to regret this.

The dogs were to live in the kitchen, that being the only room in the flat with a lino floor. We didn't mind that, although did elect to live on takeaways for the week for hygiene reasons. Now, have you ever tried to keep 7 dogs in one room? It is immensely hard. Whenever we opened the door to try to feed the adult dogs or get a cuppa, they rushed us and all managed to escape. Getting them back in involved 3 people with brooms trying to herd them back in, and needed to be done at least 6 times a day (12 if you count when you tried to leave the kitchen as well). The one time I foolishly let them have a little run around was a disaster (puppies are quite literally shit machines with legs, and are surprisingly good at hiding), and so that plan got abandoned. Nor could we pick them up individually and put them back, because when you opened the door to put the second one back, the first one would run back out, and so on.

Now to the filth. My god, I thought I'd seen some things with my baby sister, but this was of another level entirely. The kitchen had to be cleaned 6 times a day. First, we had to pick up the poo (usually about 15-20 little piles had accumulated in between cleans), then mop up the LAKE of dog piss, then finish by mopping the floor. This whole process took about 20 minutes, followed by the extra 20 minutes it took to really finish the job, because as soon as you turned your back on one of the little bastards, it had done another shit.

Now this was bad enough, but on the second day I went into the kitchen to find it looked like someone had thrown a ticker-tape parade in honour of the dog's effluence. There was tiny bits of tissue covering every conceivable surface of the kitchen. The buggers had obviously somehow managed to get hold of a pack of napkins. I cleaned the mess up, whilst cursing the day my dad's wife had demanded that they get procreating dogs to satisfy her baby-lust. I checked all the cupboards for the offending pack of napkins (even though I KNOW the dogs can't open cupboards), but had no luck in locating them, and so assumed that that would be the last I would see of them. OH NO. Every time I went up to clean, there would be another snow-storm of shredded tissue. It wasn't until the 5th day that I found the catering-size pack of napkins that had been hidden under the blanket in the dog bed. Every time I had gone up, there had been a puppy asleep in there, and I hadn't wanted to disturb them (and risk them running off to shit everywhere). It is only now, upon reflection, that I realise that it was probably all just a clever ruse orchestrated by their mother, who I famously don't get along with.

And that, dear readers, is why I want a cat.

EDIT: Photobucket
(, Tue 30 Mar 2010, 17:28, 7 replies)
Last time we went to stay with friends of my other half...
The bed we slept on had so many cat hairs on it that the black sheets looked grey (I have long haired cats who are currently moulting, this would take them a good few weeks to do, their cats are short haired)

The floor had 2 or 3 crusty old cat poos that hadn't been cleared up.

The toilet looked like it should be in a student house.

The shower was covered in a layer of slime.

The kitchen was indescribably filthy, the bottom of the kitchen sink (you know, the place where you're meant clean stuff) was mouldy and stank.

They had lived there for two weeks, that's right, TWO WEEKS!! They don't work btw, this is just how they live.

They're coming to stay with us this weekend. We both work full time. Needless to say our house will be spotless.
(, Tue 30 Mar 2010, 16:48, Reply)
My old flatmate is a lovely fella.
His approach to hygiene was, however, variously questionable and I often found myself having to remind him just what the basic expectations were.

Having grown tired of telling him and not wishing to linger in the bathroom in order to ensure he couldn't forget, I employed some help in my quest to guarantee a suitably flushed toilet was always to be awaiting my various waste.

Thus Mr. T became the guardian of our cistern, in poster form at least:

I needed never ask again.
(, Tue 30 Mar 2010, 16:01, Reply)
oh!! I have one.
A long time ago, I woke up one morning late for work after a big night out. I pulled on my clothes and ran for the train.

It was a packed train, and half way down, I felt something weird on my back. I reached up into my shirt to see what it was... it was my skin peeling off! I was terrified, I took a corner and pulled it gently, pulled a bit more... this massive chunk of skin was peeling off, but I didn't feel any pain. finally the whole slice came off.

I had a look - in front of this whole carriage of commuters - and it was a bit of doner kebab I had fallen asleep on the night before, stuck to my back with ketchup.
(, Tue 30 Mar 2010, 14:39, Reply)
A guy I used to get about with is very posh, and an absolute scummer.
He knew nothing of house training because he was so used to having a butler follow him around and a maid make everything tidy.

As a result, when he moved out into a flat his dad gave him in Chelsea (natch), it went from des res to worse-than-the-lower-end-of-the-squat-scene in 30 seconds flat.

One day, it became even too much for him, so he paid - PAID - a friend (not me, I hasten to add) to help him clean it.

They were in the middle of doing so when I made an unscheduled stop, being in the area, and I will never forget seeing his friend wrestling with a couple of saucepans in the kitchen, and when she wrassled them free of each other, the room quickly filling with a huge swarm of flies from the putrid mince they'd been breeding in.
(, Tue 30 Mar 2010, 14:25, 1 reply)
Cillit bang
I wonder if any dyslexic women have ever bought this product and ended up being very disappointed
(, Tue 30 Mar 2010, 14:04, 2 replies)
When I was young, I did a bit of housework...

So long ago now. It was 1982 and I'd just finished my A Levels, it was still mid-June and I had a whole summer ahead of me with nothing to do. I'd got a place at Leeds University waiting for me (with a bit of luck) and I had really itchy feet.

I needed to get away from home - being the eldest of four kids in a three bedroom terrace was a strain. I went to an agency and got myself a position as an au pair for a family in Nice. My mother didn't seem to mind too much, probably glad to get me off her hands for a bit. I have to admit that I'd become fairly difficult to live with, but looking back, I put it down to exam stress and hormones. Going to an all girls school in Stratford meant FAR too many hormones and no boys to unleash them on. Well, not for me anyway.

I didn't really have much of a social life at school. The West Indian girls that ruled the roost almost accepted me, except my father was Nigerian, not West Indian, and my mother was (is) Scottish. I didn't put up a post when it was 'Gingers' as the whole subject is far too painful for me. The fact that I had to share a small room with my half-sister meant I had an excuse not to have a mirror in our room - my wiry dark hair with a red tinge, my almost black eyes, flat nose and freckles. I used to cry myself to sleep and hide my developing body under loose blouses and long coats.

So, back to the story. It was time for me to get out of East London, stretch my wings, leave behind the hurt and the pain. I bought my train ticket to Nice, packed a few things and set off. Each mile the train got from London towards the south coast; each mile the ferry got from those white cliffs, each mile of track the train ate up as it headed to, then out of Paris - with each of those miles, my heart grew lighter. At first I was quiet and kept to myself, but after a couple of lager and limes on the ferry I felt more relaxed and began to chat to fellow travellers. By the time the train was nearing Nice, I was chatting happily with the others in the compartment (French was one of my A Levels) and feeling like a new girl - or was that woman?

The heat of the South had been building all day in the train, but stepping out of the station at Nice into the full sun was like nothing I'd ever experienced. It was like stepping through a cinema screen - the heat, the shade, the bustle of that busy French street, the tourists and back-packers milling around looking for taxis or buses. M. and Mme Boudet met me at the station as planned and I was soon being flung around in the back of their Citroen, as M. Boudet alternately slammed the accelerator to the floor or hit the brakes and the horn at the same time while waving his arm out of the window and letting forth a string of words that weren't on the A Level syllabus. Soon, we were heading out of the centre of town up into the surrounding hills. Round hair-pin bends I got my first view of the sea and the rest of Nice spread out below like an Henri Matisse landscape.

Their house was amazing. A solid metal gate and a high wall protected the garden of palm trees, lemon trees and rosemary. The house over-looked the amazing view back down the valley to the city and the sea. It was beautifully cool inside, white plaster and red floor tiles, dark furniture and shutters at the windows. I met the children: Jean-Luc, Monique and Therese who were thirteen, ten and five and could properly meet M and Mme Boudet who seemed ancient to me, but must have been in their late thirties. She was elegant: slim, wavy bobbed hair, wide skirt, white blouse, high heels; he was all charm: tall, tanned, a small beard around his mouth, open necked shirt and a jumper over his shoulders, pale trousers, deck shoes.

My room was pure heaven - just mine. A little bed, a wardrobe, chest of drawers, a chair and a full length mirror. They left me alone to unpack and I opened the windows, threw back the shutters and breathed deeply, then laughed aloud and fell onto the bed.

Reality bit after dinner, when madame showed me what I'd be doing: cleaning, washing, ironing, getting the children ready for school, taking and picking the little ones up from school, supervising their homework. Madame would do the shopping and cooking, but I would help her. Sundays - after I'd got the children ready for church, was my day off and I could do what I liked - if I wasn't exhausted by all the cleaning. I found that the work wasn't really that bad. It was an easy house to keep clean as all the floors were tiled, and once I'd given everything a good clean, it was fairly simple to maintain. Washing wasn't too bad either, as they had a decent washing machine and hanging the clothes out on the line to dry was actually really nice compared with stringing stuff along radiators or hanging it up in front of a two-bar electric fire.

I was pretty naive for an 18 year old, but I knew what the sticky tissues under Jean-Luc's bed were and he wasn't that good at hiding his dog-eared porn mags under the mattress either. He was a bit full of himself and a messy boy, but dropping hints about his nocturnal habits kept him in line. The girls were lovely and helped me out when they weren't playing or at school. It was hilarious to me how this five year old could have such a good command of French and a perfect accent, while my French was - I quickly realised - really, very poor.

M. Boudet was an architect and Mme Boudet was a lady of leisure. She spent most mornings with friends or shopping or getting her hair done while I got on with the chores. On Sundays, I'd go into town or wander along the Promenade des Anglais, occasionally climbing down to the beach to sit on the cobbles or paddle in the waves lazily breaking on the beach. I wasn't confident enough to put on the one-piece bathing suit I'd bought back home, but the heat had forced me to abandon my coat and wear my coolest clothes. Surrounded by sun-bathers - many topless - I began to loosen up a little and relax. I was eating well, sitting in the sun, working hard, walking a lot and I suppose I started to bloom.

Mme 'took me in hand' after a couple of weeks. She treated me to a haircut and bought me some summer clothes - a light cotton dress, a skirt, some tee-shirts. She boosted my confidence and made me look not too bad. I started looking at myself in the mirror - when the house was empty - naked, and clothed. I began to think that there was potential there, and when the boys hooted the horns on their silly little scooters at me as I walked the kids to school, I'd sashay a little (or that's what I thought I was doing). Yes, I began to notice boys everywhere and, I discovered, they thought I had a delightful English accent when I spoke French. Soon, I became a regular at the local bar, popping in for a Coke after dinner when the kids were spending time with their parents or doing homework.

One Sunday evening in early August, I was sitting at a bar with a couple of friends after a day at the beach, when a group of English lads came in and sat at a nearby table. They clearly thought everyone else in the place was French, as the people I was with were pretty noisy and very French. I suppose it was a bit naughty of me, but it was actually ages since I'd spoken English and I felt like listening in. Oh boy - there were four of them and three were trying to egg the other one on to ask me out. I casually looked over at them and held the gaze of the boy that apparently fancied me, before turning back to my friends and letting forth with a burst of high-speed French. My trap was set, and the 'victim' was actually pretty good looking and seemed nice enough from what I could hear. I got up and walked right over to him and, in my best French-accented English asked him:

"Wezzer e ad un piece de cinqe Franc pour le juke-box?"

"Errr. Wee. Je ave un cinque Franc. Ici, dons mon poche."

That wasn't all he had in his pocket as I could see as he half rose to fish around in his jeans. He pulled out a handful of change and held it out. I gently took his fingertips and extracted a 5 Franc piece. "Merci. Tu es tres gentil". He re-pocketed his change as I walked away, I paused, turned and beckoned to him: "Viens"

* * *

Ten minutes later we were walking hand-in-hand along a rapidly darkening beach, heading for a spot I knew.

"Shall we go for a bathe?" I asked.


We were in a secluded spot, well away from prying eyes and I flung myself at him and landed a kiss hard on his lips. He clasped me round my waist and we stayed glued to each other for ages. I could feel his hard cock pressing against me and I moved gently to agitate it. He reached lower and stroked my bum, grabbing it gently in his hands and pressing me to him. I broke our kiss and whispered in his ear: "Do you have know?" He knew alright. In seconds we were grabbing at each others clothes and pawing at each others bodies. I was fascinated with his cock and knelt down in front of him, exploring it with my hands, rubbing it, feeling his balls, stroking it against my cheek.

"Oh no" he moaned, as I could feel it begin to jerk, then erupt in my hand. He grabbed it and pointed it away from me at the last second and I watched, amazed as a spurt of cum went flying through the air, and another, and another; ten feet it must have flown easily. I gently took his cock again and licked the last drips from the tip, salty and slimy and warm and then his whole cock was in my mouth and I was licking and sucking and it was harder than ever and I was rubbing myself too and I was wet and hot and I lay back on the pile of clothes on the stony beach and beckoned to him once more, "Viens. Viens"

And wow. He licked me until I was screaming before he dug out his johnnie and rolled it on and then we fucked.

After, I lay there, snuggled against him and started giggling. I was so tempted to break the spell and come out with my best East London: "Fuck me that was good." But I didn't. I kept up the pretence, we swapped names and addresses (false in my case) and I never saw him again.

I kept house all summer, staying until the holidaymakers had all gone home then made my way to university, via home, a much wiser and saner woman.
(, Tue 30 Mar 2010, 13:56, 23 replies)

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