Friday, September 8, 2000.

It smells funny and it's thinner and more watery than I expected. I thought it would be more like Jif. Jif had such a pleasing, crystalline quality. The tiny cleaning particles in Jif were obvious, tangible: their scratching audible. But Shiny Sinks squits out the bottle in a torrent and fills the kitchen with acrid fumes that sting my nose and eyes. I pull the dangling cord that starts the extractor fan, hold my breath and get to work. I slide the bright blue brillo pad round the bottom of the sink. Press harder as I start to scrub. Nothing's happening, I think, scrubbing with tiny motions. But when I lift the brillo pad the bottom is black, and when I rinse the liquid and the limescale and residue and teastains away then it all comes clean, and yes, I now have a shiny sink. It looks new again. I wish I could be bothered to keep the signs of time on me at bay like that, with a bit of judicious scrubbing here, and some rubbing there, and some jiggling about and some daubings of strangesmelling liquids with promising titles there, but I can't, I can't be bothered, I can't.

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