My landlady’s definition of a proper clean and my definition of a proper clean are not the same. I had her clean the flat twice before I moved in, and while the second attempt was a much more valiant effort, the bathroom still wasn’t habitable.
Even after two allegedly “professional” cleans there was still significant mildew discoloration in the caulking and grout, the whole room–nay, the whole flat!–reeked like the end of days. I sat in despair on the sofa, snacking on a crumpet, and just couldn’t even.
So taking inspiration from this week’s headlines in US/North Korea relations, visited fire and fury on the mildew that was sucking my will to live.
I went to the closest Sainsbury’s, purchased £50 worth of cleaning products, some heavy duty rubber gloves, and a squeegee, and then went to town.
Three hours later, after I had washed literally every surface in the bathroom with multiple forms of bleach, the room sparkled, smelled intensely fresh (and by “fresh” I mean like bleach), and I may or may not have contracted black lung disease from the fumes.