On Wednesdays and Thursdays, I clean houses on the lower section of Wenceslas Avenue- 190-220 on the right, 191-222 on the left.  And that means that I get to go into people’s houses while they’re away and see what strange things they keep in there.

Here are a few of them.

Number 191- the one that looks like a doll’s house

And I’m not talking about a classy Victorian doll’s house with delicately carved furnishings.  I’m talking Barbie, Polly Pocket, fluorescent pink vinyl, holographic designs all over the kitchen, every other surface covered in cushiony velvet.  Everything is candy-coloured, even things like the fridge and the oven.  There’s a sweet fruity smell wafting through the rooms.  There are little paintings of hearts or stars in some of the corners.

Unfortunately, it’s also like a kid’s toy in another way- after you’ve played with it too many times, it gets all faded and scuffed.  There are scratches on the holographic surfaces and tears in the velvet.  There are chips in the walls and stains that never quite come out.  Everything near the windows is about three shades paler than the things around it.  Honestly, it’s kind of sad.  They say nothing gold can stay, and I guess nothing fluorescent pink can, either.

Number 210- the one with all the taxidermy

To be fair, there’s only three taxidermy things (the ferret on the mantelpiece, the owl in the hallway, and the cross-eyed fox in the dining room), but honestly I think just one would have been enough.  They sit about, gathering dust (til I get there), glassily watching the world go by.  At least the clowns across the road get rearranged now and then.

Most of the rest of the rooms are full of leather-upholstered furniture, all ancient and cracking.  It’s a good thing you never hear about animals becoming poltergeists, because if they did, you’d have the ghosts of about twelve cows and half the cast of The Gruffalo coming by every night to smash up the place.

Number 200- the one with the doting parents

The son of the couple who live here is called Thomas.  I know this because the whole house is a damn shrine to him.

School pictures.  Certificates.  Trophies, both sporting and academic.  I’m guessing that Thomas is an only child, because if there were any siblings who had to live with so many constant reminders of his brilliance, they’d have assassinated him long ago.

Meanwhile, upstairs, there is a bedroom full of school supplies, computer games, and movie posters; and that particular room always has at least three full cans of Carlsberg hidden under the bed.  I’m not planning to tell his parents.  Thomas has a stressful life.