DP has a tendency to accumulate shit stuff and hates it if I try to get rid of things - I tried to get rid of a rickety chest of drawers, but by the time I'd got the bastarding thing downstairs and had to go to work, he'd dragged it back in and said it could go into the living room 'for storage', thus taking up the space for the armchair which I also want to get rid of. He then bought a record player 'because we have somewhere to put one now'. It's never used.
The spare room/recording studio makes me feel sick just to look at it - five sets of shelves, posters, flags, random cloths, shit all over the bed so it can't be used without 25 minutes of clearing it first, stuff under it, a desk, a flight case large enough for a washing machine, bags hanging off the door so you can't open it fully, shit piled up in front of the airing cupboard and wardrobe.
There's even enough drums for a Rush concert piled on top of one another in the kitchen where the fridge should be. And the small amount of counter space is filled with tins, jars, packets, bowls, everything that should be in one of the many, many cupboards.
Our bedroom has the bed with his shit stacked up underneath it, a dressing table, a chest of drawers and a tiny wardrobe. And a CD rack he wouldn't let me bin to use as a bedside table for my side.
The landing is clear - except for the two hampers he's decided to put by the bathroom door, their only purpose being for the cat to sleep on.
The bathroom is clear. Except for his shit all over the windowsill.
The shower room is clear. Except for the metal shelf unit he refused to get rid of.
I want to bin the shitty coffee table, the DVD rack that the speaker stands on, the shitty chair that even the cats won't use, the horrible glass TV stand and the fucking chest of drawers. And his crappy plastic standard lamp that was 'so much nicer' than my bastarding expensive arched light. He's also removed my brass side lamp as 'we have my light and the one in the ceiling'.
We don't need to get rid of anything, apparently. We don't need to get anything different, as that would mean getting rid of what is already here.
He's bought cunting fold down TV dinner tables that I want to use as firewood really hate and has moved the coffee table to stick out from a wall where it's impossible to reach a cup from sitting.
The loft is overflowing with his shit. I have nowhere to put my stuff. It's impossible to clean around or even see the dirt through the stuff not that he's any good at cleaning anyhow I can feel the walls closing in on me every day.
Sometimes, were it not for the danger to next door, I fantasise about coming back to find him sat outside a burned out shell with the cats in a basket.
I grew up in a hoarder's midden. This place is a million times clearer and cleaner. But it still freaks me the fuck out.
New 'things' appear all the time. Novelty spoons, Union Jack coasters, and Elvis clock with wobbling leg pendulum - a sodding glass chopping board in the design of a fucking record player.
And then he complains that there are two opened letters, a hairbrush and a lipstick on the coffee table and that I should 'sort all the stuff out'. Stuff? My 'stuff' would fit into a carrier bag. Try the fucking two houses worth of shitty furniture and drums before you come at me about half a carrier bag as 'getting in the way of cleaning'.