Somebody’s put a canoe on my car.
It’s been a long time since anything strange like that has happened. Previously I’ve returned to a car to find it covered in pieces of steak (and carnivorous pigeons), we’ve had a car egged, and a yellow Montego has developed pink spots in the night. But this canoe is a new look.
I wouldn’t mind, but whoever did it has scratched the roof.
As I'm typing this, my hands feel all dry and wrinkly. I’ve just had to enter the Kitchen of Doom™ and face the Washing Up of Death™. It took bloomin' ages.
To be fair, though, it isn’t really much of a Kitchen of Doom™. It’s more of a Kitchen of Washing Up™.
And I suppose the washing up can’t really be described as being Of Death, either – it should perhaps be more Of Life, since that’s what seems to keep springing up from it.
Also in today's news, one of the cats has died. Technically it was one of my parents’ cats, since I left home seven years ago, but he used to be my cat. I’ve had four cats in my life, and this is the third to die. That’s 75% dead cats.
I was hoping to make myself feel a little better with a tasteless (and quite poor) joke when the other half got home. The conversation was supposed to go like this:
It did not go to plan.Me: My mum phoned this morning. It’s about the cat.
Other half: Why? Is he worse? (I’d already found out that he was sick two days ago.)
Me: It’s worse than that, Jim. (Rubbish Star Trek reference.)
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