I wish I could say that my sons were not pigs. Sadly, this is not the case.

My house is arranged in such a way that all of my sons' clothes, toys, furniture and bathroom is upstairs. And that's all that's upstairs. Their stuff.

Once every month and a half or so, I venture up there. I know, I know, I should go more often, but inevitably, every time I go up there, it's like the rooms are a swirling vortex of doom, sucking me in against my will. I get trapped cleaning, rearranging, dumping, shouting and scrubbing until the place is habitable by human beings again.

( The nitty gritty... )

Maybe when they go back to school, it'll be less like a pigsty.

Though there's no need to blaspheme the pig, come to think of it.