The psychological effects of ill-chosen flooring.

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It’s been six weeks since we moved in and I’ve finally unpacked enough decor to fill my Expedit. In light of my current state of tile-induced depression, I feel like this is a mammoth achievement worthy of an uploaded pic.

Honestly, though. White tiles are ridiculous. They showcase every speck of dust and hair, every footprint, pawprint and every crumb of dropped food.

And the grout! When we first inspected the property the floor hadn’t been cleaned, so we assumed the grout would look completely different once we’d moved in. It looked exactly the same; stained and patchy and just generally disgusting.

tiles

And there’s just so much of it. The tiles are in every room in the house except the bedrooms. I can’t even put down my rugs because Hans is still prone to random indoor piss-attacks (he’s been informed that he’s the reason we can’t have nice things). I’ve scrubbed with various products and bleaches but it hasn’t made the slightest difference. I also know there are paint products you can buy that transform grout but I’m just not prepared to spend my own money and time restoring a squillion square metres of somebody else’s neglected flooring.

Hence the depression; I feel that when the floors look grotty, the rest of the house looks grotty also. And because I don’t feel like displaying my lovely porn in a grotty house, the place just doesn’t look or feel homely.

Thoughts or advice, anyone? Take a spoonful of cement and get over your white girl middle-class first-world problems, perhaps?

 

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