Unbeknownst to the horde of Americans that have been staying at my house over the past two weeks, I’ve actually been chronicling the state of the downstairs shower.

Boys are probably well aware of ‘Female Toiletry Multiplication Syndrome’ (FTMS) where, magically, one shampoo bottle magically divides itself, over night, into two bottles the next day. This process continues until, eventually, your entire shower is full of damn bottles. Everywhere you put your foot: bottle! And that’s if you’re lucky. When the razors and loofahs start dividing you’re in trouble…

Obviously, with six girls under one roof, this problem is exacerbated. Not only do you have shampoo bottles, there’s conditioner. And exfoliators. Defoliators! (Is that even a word?)  Razors, lotions, sponges… and even some shower gel!! But, of course, being the sensible girls that they are, they shared just one shower gel.

If only they’d shared the other products too…

A timelapse sequence from the past eleven days now follows.

Shower gel, shampoo and conditioner. Sensible.

More bottles of the same stuff? WHY?!

Obviously, after three days, some shaving needs to occur.

Another girl realises it’s time to shave! I wonder if it’s like ‘pack mentality’ — one shaves and they all shave.

Oh… my… God. The pink sponge. I thought I’d hit the mother lode when this beauty turned up. It made all the waiting worthwhile.

Two remaining girls seem to have remember that their legs are probably getting a bit hairy by now. Also, some pretty blue bottle whose contents I enver did ascertain…

Someone’s obviously had a bit of a tidy-up. A few more bottles arrive. Exfoliator maybe? Not sure.

MORE bottles. Now some baby oil in the bottom right? Or baby shampoo? And some hair treatment stuff.

Out of frickin’ NOWHERE another razor! Wait, no, three more razors. Someone obviously likes — or, by this stage, needs — a sharp blade.

Like gremlins they are… multiplying… By this stage, it was very hard to actually take a shower. I’m not a small guy, and finding somewhere to put my feet was a challenge.

…

And the worst bit is that I only just realised that one of the girls has finished my shampoo. Women! Gotta love ‘em… right…?

For those of you that read this blog on a regular basis you’ll know that my mother likes to comment. In fact, reading my blog is part of her ‘breakfast routine’ — she can often be found with a cup of tea and pastry in-hand as she reads my blog in the morning, her face displaying a terrible, nervous grin as she discovers yet another disgusting fact about her ‘beautiful, first-born son Sebastian’ (that’s how she introduces me to friends).

Every Thursday morning, like clockwork, she yells up the stairs: ‘That’s not true is it Sebastian?!’

And every time I answer with a noncommittal ‘Maybe… now where’s my coffee?’

Basically, my mother and I have a very close relationship. We talk about almost everything. She’s not quite as smart as me, but she’s a lot brighter than people give her credit for! She’s funny, though not generally witty, but occasionally she pulls out a good one. And that’s what this story’s about.

As always… for more TMI Thursday stories, check out Lilu’s infamous blog!

I’m going to tell you the origin of our ‘Embarrass Each Other’ game. It’s a very self-destructive game but just too damn fun to give up. The basic idea is simple: try to embarrass mum/Seb as much as possible. Normally this is achieved by talking very loudly in public places: theme parks, supermarkets, malls, that kind of thing. Teenage boys have a lot of things they’re embarrassed by and, believe it or not, so do ageing women!

So we’re at the supermarket on Saturday, buying food for the week. It’s very busy. We find ourselves in the ‘toiletries’ aisle, home of shampoo, toothpaste and… objects of a more private nature.

“Hey, mum, don’t you need to pick up a pregnancy test? What with all those random guys you’ve been sleeping with…”

I start off quietly, low-key. One old lady turns to look at my mother disapprovingly but we ignore her.

“Shall we check if they have those special condoms for people of a smaller, midget-like stature?” She’s louder. A couple of teenage girls turn to giggle at me. Low-blow, mum.

“What about those adult diapers? You know, those nappies that you can wear to prevent ‘embarrassing moments’. They’re just over here I think…” No more Mr Nice Guy. Right in there with the incontinence pants. We’ve often joked that my sole purpose in life is to look after her when she’s older and less… in control.

“Oh, look, they have special razors for that unibrow of yours! AND you can use it when you finally get some facial hair! Two birds with one stone!” (OK, so I was a late bloomer…) — I don’t think she realises just how loud she’s shouting, but people at both ends of the aisle have stopped to look at us. Even those paying for their food and the staff have started watching us.

“Ahhh, look! THE THRUSH CREAM! FOR THE ITCHING! Really, anything to stop you whining about that damn burning sensation!”

My mum pouts and falls silent. I’ve won; not without taking a few blows, but I’ve won, that’s what matters. I’m smiling like a smug idiot that’s just won the Special Prize. People are looking at me as if I’m dribbling down my front and walking with a limp usually reserved for limb-dragging quadriplegics.

And then my girlfriend appears. She waltzes down the aisle, unaware of the drama that’s just unfolded. She stops at one shelf and picks up a pack of extra-small condoms. She stops again and picks up a tube of thrush cream. Only then does she notice my mother and I.

OH SHI–