I’m sat in the lounge, the modular sofas have been split due to the idea of cleaning manifested itself into the actual cleaning of the dust and awfulness from underneath. Christ we must live in a shit hole, the amount of dog hair, darkening the cushions, the number of pens and sweet wrappers under the sofa, the odd 20p, the occasional £1. We deal very less with the coppers,
“we are considerably richer than yow”
So I’m looking at the filth of the lounge, jaded, hearing the sound of the Henry hoover in my head, always after dark, always at the wrong time of day. The only time of day we can clean, we work full time, 9 to 5, when else? God I hate the cleaning, but i love the dogs, so i guess I have to just suck it up.
I came back from the most antiquated property maintenance company in the world; my folks are in charge, they can’t use a computer, its always a nightmare, always a nightmare. But I’m stood in the lounge with my trainers on, Adidas if you must know, and I sweep my feet across the rug, and as my soles sweep, i gather fluff, it gathers and gathers, and its not fluff, its dog wool, there’s loads of it, I’m going to make jumpers, you watch I’ll be a fucking multi millionaire. Midlands Merino from mucky pups, thats my selling point and thats what I’m sticking to.
See you at London Fashion Week