The smell of death as I walked into the house each evening that DP was oblivious to.
Not the cat bowls being left unwashed.
Nothing in the sink, microwave or behind the freezer.
Not the fridge nor the overflow thing at the back of the fridge.
Accusations that it must be the cats using the litter tray if I could smell something did nothing to allay my suspicions that he'd put food somewhere and forgotten about it (he has form).
I checked under cupboards for mousy corpses. Behind the washing machine. The toaster, the not washed out steamer (I said he had form).
And then I found it. When I had banged out a load of money on a fancy rice cooker, I had mentioned to DP on several occasions that the condensation thing at the back needed cleaning each time, along with the condenser plate and behind said plate. It was also in the instruction booklet. Which he had read at least once.
Oh, my fucking god. The stench as I pulled out the collector and condenser plate to find a thick, sticky layer of rice water fed mould.
And he'd been cooking and feeding me rice with it.
After I scrubbed the bejesus out of the parts, picked further debris out of the hinges and tried to remove the additional crud that had run down inside where the induction plate resides, trying not to puke as I did it, 'Was that the smell in here, then? I didn't know there was anything else you needed to do apart from washing the bowl. You didn't say anything to me about it...[backs away around eight foot as I turn slowly] No harm done really?'
'Yes. It's good to know that it's apparently only potentially fatal for somebody taking immunosuppressive medication rather than guaranteed death every time, especially taking into my two days off work this week chucking my fucking guts up'.
Chicken in the microwave has nothing on that smell.