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Tuesday, October 24, 2006


Spent the last hour drifting around the flat wondering why I could feel something sharp digging into the tender skin at the very base of my big toe. When I first felt it, I whipped off my groovy lilac slipper, complete with its embroidered, rainbow-sequinned butterfly [yes, I was a drag queen in a past life], and saw nothing to explain my discomfort, just an innocuous cat hair. Usually, when I feel something digging into my foot, it's a piece of grit or cat litter, but neither my foot nor my slipper bore evidence of such neglected housework horrors.

Finally, a few minutes ago, I took a closer look. Still, the only thing I could see, was a cat hair. So I got as close to my foot as my nose dared, and the cat hair appeared to be embedded in my flesh, at the exact point of agony. "What the f...?" I thought. How can a cat hair cause such pain? Well, I grabbed the "cat hair". It turned out to be a very fine spine off one of my cacti. It may have looked like a cat hair, but it had the texture of a bristly old horse hair, or a fine wood splinter.

It's just as well I've got the vacuum cleaner out, ready to use. I hate housework. I simply cannot understand women who say they love it. Treacherous bitches. I mean, what the hell did Emily Wilding Davison chuck herself under King George V's horse for? The Suffragettes would turn in their graves. I HATE housework and I'm only doing it out of fear the flat may start to reek like a badger hole. Tell you what, though - I'm having a huge bowl of ice cream when it's done. The promise of an icy, multicoloured mound of Neapolitan is the only thing that will get me through the ordeal.

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