Drowning in my fluids

My hands are sore. My eyes sting. I lay awake at night, gasping for breath, the fluids rattling in my lungs as my body fights for life and grasps for the edge with bloody, ragged fingernails, afraid to fall into the abyss, lest I never climb out again.

Which is a good indication that the common household chemicals I'm using to remove the damp induced mould in the flat may well be reacting together and I might need to open a window or two. Big change at home; utter rearrangement of the flat. Kate took the vast majority of her furniture yesterday, so I spent six hours yesterday evening on an intensely hyperactive Johnny Homemaker cleaning and moving session. Erecting the new bed was less hassle than it initially appeared to be, aided by the fact that when I bolted the wrong bit on, House Boy, a.k.a my son Mark was sent into the warzone on his own to undo my wrong-doings.

<---- House Boy!

The living room is now the bedroom, and vice versa. Decided I'd rather have a roomy, non claustrophobic bedroom and a small, cosy living room. The kitchen has been scrubbed down in obsessive-compulsive fashion. The entire place has been thoroughly aired and the horrible, not quite identifiable musty smell has gone.

I don't agree with the whole New Man thing, males should be males and etc etc, do what's in your nature as long as it's not hurting someone else. Yet, I find myself standing in shops and looking at duvet covers and assorted home furnishings, stroking my chin knowing full well I look like Graham Norton eyeing up a bottom.

Frankly, I don't care; this is the first place in over half a decade which has been entirely my abode and mine alone. Like a dog pissing up you favourite dry clean only jacket, I'm marking my territory and creating Base Camp. It's like a mad dictators hidden cave deep in the mountains; no matter what goes wrong in my personal and social life, I can retreat here and redraw my plans for world domination.