I could have been disturbed by the stinging of stray Sagrotan (bleach) droplets on my arms. I could have lamented the mysterious new blobs of bleach on fabrics on the far side of the room. I might even have worried about the potential effects of the fumes.
Instead, I stood back (gloves on, with a towel tied over my face), and breathed just a hint of chlorine in the warm, humid air.
"Just like being at the pool," I thought, while chilling out to my summer holiday soundtrack (the noisy exhaust fan - sounds just like air conditioning at home). I was reminded so much of relaxed childhood holidays that, for a few minutes, I started floating off on happy, chlorine-scented memories. I swayed gently, spray bottle in one hand, old toothbrush (for scrubbing grouting and fiddly bits) hanging limply in the other. I wondered vaguely if I should fill the bath, put my bathing suit on, and hop in.
And then I realised that the fumes had gone to my head, and I'd better get out of the room. Quickly.
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