It is the little things that get you down.

I poke my head through the loft hatch, waiting patiently for the Replacement Carpenter to finish some important hammering.

“When you’ve got a minute…”

“No hurry at all, but…”

“It’s just that…”

“It’s just that… you seem to have nailed the dishwasher shut.”

He looks at me, querulously.

“And… I’d quite like to make some tea, you see. But I can’t get the dishwasher open. And the mugs are inside.”

“Sorry,” I add, in the time honoured fashion of English Crapness at apologising for things that cause one massive inconvenience and are the total and unarguable fault of the recipient of the apology.

I do not like to tell him that I can no longer close the bathroom door, resolving to keep that one for tomorrow.

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