Dishwasher's broken. Overloaded and constantly on the run over the Christmas period, the poor cunt has just had enough. It'll still turn on and shit, but remains blanketed in a refusal to draw water. 'I'm not thirsty,' it groans despite its demonstrable dehydration. 'Wash them your fucking self,' it whines while emitting a worryingly burny smell.
And so I went to washing them my fucking self. This brought me briefly back to the bygone days before we had a dish dirt disposer at our disposal. I did a lot of washing up back then. And always they created more, these women.
Not this time, I have decided. No more. A representative of Mastercare is due on Monday but until then I have them drinking from carton or tap, and eating from a trough that I have lovingly constructed from bits of sawn-off Christmas tree and Hannah Montana art project packaging. They look so sweet, my girls, kneeling outside in the bitter cold, their cute faces buried in a rapidly cooling swill of carbonara, Nicoise and trifle.
I may cancel Mastercare Man.