Born in the old House of Awful and nurtured to maturity with shards of olive-oil covered glass, cat-yack and one dropped wine bottle too many, my loathing of tile floors has finally been boiled down to its essence.
See, I thought it was the tiles themselves: cold, inhospitable, a bitch to keep cat-hair-free and the clear winner in a fight between the floor and anything dropped from waist height. But no, really, that’s not what I hate.
I hate the grout.
I’ve spent several hours recently with the FloorMate’s grout attachment, and while it’s pretty good, it’s no match for the grout in the new place, which was grey and occasionally black with unknown filth. I’ve killed the bristles and bent the handle. And the handle’s way too short and resulted in an even more Quasimodo-esque hunch than I normally sport.
New plan: kneepads and a scrub brush, and someone trailing behind me with the wet-vac. Or, better yet, flat scrubbies I can strap to my feet and skate across the floor. No way that could end badly.