
I'm sitting here at the head of my table, happily leafing through the mental photo album of my memories, what hasn't changed in the last few years, the dog is old, the children are older, does that make them tidier, the children not the dog, no They aren't, or I just gave up on haunting their rooms, or letting them haunt them, after a wonderful household helper could only be rescued with the mountain rescue service - for a long time I didn't know whether I should even complain about my suffering, but it is Is it sufficiently embarrassing to admit such parenting failures, how well did my parents deal with them?
Be that as it may, I'm still thinking about whether and how I should complain, when a good friend's factual report comes across my table, which I simply can't withhold from you. I accept it verbatim and continue to accept no liability for any of it Damage:
weekend..
The every morning catastrophe is over. The apartment is quiet. While looking for breakfast, I discover the jar of Nutella behind half a dozen moldy milk cartons. There's a knife in it, the glass is empty, even for the greatest optimist and without coffee I'm not optimistic.
The butter is also missing. Just like the newspaper. I've lost my appetite. So take a shower first. There is only cold water that doesn't run off.
There are bottles with funny bunny pictures floating in the broth. They're empty, and their lids are clogging the drain, along with hair I've never seen on my sons' heads. The only shower gel that doesn't smell like cat pee drifts towards the bedroom. The dam of textiles that someone thoughtfully constructed breaks and captures all the clean towels and my fresh clothes. I need emotional support.
While looking for the phone, I stumble across an impressive range of state-of-the-art telecommunications electronics, complete with original packaging, some of which could rival any doghouse in terms of volume and are probably meant to be kept until judgment day. Preferably in narrow, dark hallways.
Likewise, carrying smartphones is apparently only mandatory on school days; On weekends, massive boxes with all sorts of strange structures clearly have priority. Because “we do sports there, tennis and stuff like that”, in front of the screen, with the operating radius of a table fan. So I'm lucky and I find a 700 euro cell phone lying on top of the cistern in the guest toilet.
I clumsily tap our landline number into the tiny keys. A weak whimper leads me to a room door that is straining against an obvious avalanche. A carried away stack of comics has left a tiny crack open through which bedding is spilling. I fit through easily without breakfast and am now in the middle of a disaster zone. The whining is repeated, but becomes weaker with each dial tone and is impossible to locate. As I boldly begin to dig, dishes clank.
I bravely shovel my way through a quicksand-like mixture of unidentifiable teenage supplies and household goods to the buried victims. What's left of the newspaper lies on a plate, including bread with sausage spread.
The greasy paper is almost transparent and has draped itself over the slices of bread like a shroud. The obituaries have faded; You can still see a few zeros in the economics section. And of course the “miscellaneous”. The travel section is a lot further away.
The cordless telephone must have been among the first victims. I find it just as the display goes out with a final, heartbreaking beep. I carefully retrieve it from its smelly grave. It smells like old socks. But it could also be popcorn, it smells absolutely the same to me. I would also like a barrel of rum around my neck. Instead, a bad hair day awaits me without breakfast and education.
When I put the phone in the charging station, the answering machine flashes. My best friend, who is going to call the police next, but now for real, because no one has seen me in “forever.”
Just like the butter.
I grit my teeth, shower with cold water and what's left of the bottles with the bunnies on them, and escape to my friend's in my coat and pajamas. The idea of the police doesn't leave me alone anymore. I have to set something straight here.
For my detailed description of the conditions on site and the hot goods, I am praised as an attentive and quick-witted witness. I even noticed the lack of a charging cable and several pairs of headphones. (Two weeks ago, actually.)
Trembling with gratitude and hunger, I dictate our address to the friend and helper on the phone. No, the perpetrators are now safely on the run. (My silver storm lighter, key case and black cashmere scarf are missing from the chest of drawers in the hallway.)
It will probably take some time to collect and catalog hardware and software in all versions, sizes and price ranges. Together with the peripherals, I could pay off all my debts and still have butter and warm water.
The antediluvian iPhone in the Game Boy case with the lipstick marks on the home button will puzzle them, and I will miss it. It was a gift from one of my sons. He had “one left.” Very different times will soon dawn here.
After me the deluge. And maybe they'll find the butter.
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