Five days

I am flummoxed.
Flummoxed, I tell you!

How is it possible that after five days away, during which I was not present in my home whatsoever to wreak havoc, the apartment is a disaster zone?  FIMA would hesitate to parachute in supplies.

Ok, perhaps I exaggerate a little; it makes for a better story after all, but honestly, there are piles of... of.... things that need sorting and attending to, and surfaces that need some cleansing attention. The laundry pile has grown into a monster, threatening to escape the hamper which made for a poor night of sleep, let me tell you.

Perhaps we only notice the reproductive habits of Tupperware because it is usually contained in a small space to the proliferation of tops and bottoms of containers is readily evident when the drawer or cupboard no longer closes properly. I'm starting to believe that all possessions have the same propensities, only it takes a while for us to catch on because they have the whole of the house to lay claim to. When you see a thing everyday, you don't really see it anymore. It's only when you see it again after some time apart that you notice Number Five Nephew doesn't slush his ess's anymore, or, in this case, my stuff is taking over my house.

Consider this a declaration of war, Stuff.  You've had five days of attempted rebellion. I hope you enjoyed it, but I'm taking back the territory and making it mine.

Just as soon as I finish my tea.