“That’s it!” announces the LTLP.
I glance at her in concern.
“I am officially PISSED OFF with washing up.”
I know that she has been unhappy for some time. She has been complaining of a bad back from where she has to lean over the sink, and the occasional session without marigolds has caused the skin on her hands to go a bit singingdetectivey.
“I know you are,” I reassure her. “Just think though – we’ll be back in our nice cottage in three months or so, with our brand new dishwasher.”
She fixes me with a stare. I suddenly come over all worried, like a small boy who’s fallen into the leopard enclosure.
“No. I need you to help.”
“But I have helped! I got you that special washing up liquid for sensitive skin. Plus I always try to use a paper plate if possible.”
“I need you to do some fucking washing up!”
I feel myself being engulfed by leopards. I look this way, then that way, then this way again. A miraculous superhero thing emerges from neither this way nor that way in order to help me out. She seems really cross now.
“All you do,” she continues, “is stupid easy jobs like – quote – ‘hanging the washing up’ – unquote – that appears to involve you disappearing upstairs with the washing basket in order that you can sneak onto the PC and have conversations with your internet DWEEB FRIENDS.”
This seems a bit unjust, and needs challenging. “They are not exactly my friends…” I begin. But she is not interested. I skulk back into the lounge and contemplate my forthcoming life of drudgery.