That’s so annoying; when people ask “Penny for your thoughts?” Piss right off! My thoughts are PRICELESS, there’s no way I’m giving anything away so cheaply. Cheeky bastards. But something occurred to me yesterday at work, and then on my journey home in the car: the extent to which we mutter on to ourselves during the course of the day is pretty mind-boggling at times.

People yabber on to themselves to varying degrees, from giving a full running commentary of their task lists, to just the odd outburst of despair (or joy, or completely freaky madness). One of my colleagues is an absolute darling and she’s non-stop, talking to herself about the things she’s done and is yet to complete on her “to do list” for that day. Another colleague can’t read without reading out loud. Another just goes on and on and, I’m sure she’s intending that people are listening to her, but she’s so tiresome that nobody does and she essentially talks to herself all day.

What’d be really interesting is an experiment whereby a person wears a microphone and everything they say is recorded over a 24hr period. Snippets from my typical working day might include:

“Eeuurghh, hello there Otto! Move, got to get up now. Come on, love, I need to get up. MOVE! For fuck’s sake!” (Thud! as Otto is shoved onto the floor).

“Move out the way you lot, come on. Going out Max? Go on then. Oh come on then, Otto, off you go. Sonny, I’m not standing with the fucking door open all morning while you decide whether it’s safe for you outside today. Oh fuck off then!”

“Fuck off, shitting radio shite”

“Fucking come ON! How long does it fucking take to set off from some fucking traffic lights, you total fucking MONG! Jesus, fucking Christ almighty! Just move!”

“‘Morning”

“Ugh”

“Oh fuck off, you twat. Go off and whinge to the boss again. Cunt”

“Oh bollocks!… smile … ‘Good morning, Thingy and Whatsit Department, how can I help? …. It’s a pleasure, cheerio’….”

“Right, I’m off”

“Oh come on, you tosser. Why do you need to leave such a huge gap? Look, mo.. DON’T LET THAT FUCKER IN! Fuck’s sake, been queuing for ages and that twat.. JEEEEZUSS!”

“Bastards”

“Vrrrooooooooooooooommm.. SCREEEEEEEEEAAACH!!!”

“Oh tits, can’t they park a bit better? Spastics”

“Oops!”

“Hiya MAX! Max, Max, Max, Max, Max!!!”

At the hospital
I’ve got a follow up hospital appointment this afternoon. Having been given plenty of time to consider my options, I’m going ask that a benign breast lump is removed. There’s no clinical need to, but having seen the thing on the mammogram, it scared the shit out of me and I want it OUT!

It’s obviously an extremely rare occurrence, but people who get intimate with me can get a bit freaked when they encounter it. I’ve been instructed to tell the surgeon that I want it out “Because it’s interfering with my sex life”. I think in truth, it’s my huge arse, bingo wings and udder that are the main problem when it comes to be me having a healthy sex life, I just hope this isn’t pointed out to me at the hospital.

This sort of thing makes me really nervous. I hate having to talk about myself to people; my nerves get the better of me and I end up laughing and joking about things that are really rather serious.

Need a poo now.

Why do I never learn from my mistakes?
The number of times when I’ve sent out e-mail shots to LOADS of people, you’d think I’d remember to turn off the “request read receipt” before I click send. What a tit. This was today’s response, or some of it. I’ve no idea how long I’ll be getting these things back, but I’m still getting returns from when I e-mailed the entire organisation of 4,000 staff members a couple of years ago.

I love e-mails. They give you the time to get composed, to think what you’re trying to convey, to correct mistakes, to get the clear message across to the recipient and your recipient has your message in writing to refer back to should they need to review the information. E-mails are also very convenient: you can send documents and data almost anywhere in the world at any time of day. As a matter of fact, I’ve just given some advice to a consultant this very second, which is very nice of me considering they earn about four times what I’m on. I’m not bitter though. So there you go, e-mails are brilliant, they give you documentary evidence of the information you provide people and they’re convenient and super.

However, with the click of a button, your world could quite easily come to an end. It’s very easy to be a bit too honest when you’re writing messages to loved ones. The tone of your voice as you write may come over completely differently when read by the recipient. Avoid sending e-mails when upset. Also, one bad habit that I’ve got is inserting the recipient’s name into the”To” field before I’ve composed the message and added any relevant attachments. Anybody ever noticed how close the “attach” button is to the “send” button in Outlook? Actually, they’ve been separated in the latest version – ’bout bloody time too.

E-mails = great

Phone calls = trauma

Answerphone messages = absolutely out of the question: “Hello, my name is Tina Indecipherable Surname (that’s spelt Aye, Bee, See, Dee…) and I’m calling from such and such a department with a message for somebody I’d much rather e-mail, but they’ve given me the wrong address. I’d like to speak to them concerning something that’s not very interesting, but it pays the bills, so if they could get back to me on extension 1234 or e-mail me – I’m on the global address list. Thanks very much, cheerio, bye-bye.”

In fact, I’m tempted to unplug the phone in my office. Every time it rings I growl and snarl “Ahhh, just fuck off!….” – smile – “….Hello, Thingy and Whatsit, Tina speaking!”. Frig.

Poo plugs
Something awful happened to me earlier on. Having enjoyed 3 good motions today, I went to the toilet for another evacuation of my bowel. I’d just finished washing my hands, when I experienced desperate colonic urgency and I had to go again – like horribly liquidy. And then again once more. It seems to have settled now.

I have a theory about poo plugs: these are good, satisfying poos, behind which lurk a torrent of brown, pooey liquid just waiting to catch you unawares within minutes of the release of the plug.

Very nasty if you squeeze one out before getting into your car at the beginning of a delay-filled journey.

Those who aren’t from the UK may not be fortunate enough to have heard of a comic genius called Victoria Wood. Those who have heard of Victoria Wood, and who have enjoyed her various sketch and stand up routines, and the discrete little one-offs that she produced in the early 1990s, might just remember one entitled Over to Pam.

Ring any bells? How does “Chuck a sausage”, “It’s a low fat yoghurt!”, “Can I budge by, I’m borderline hypoglycaemic!” help? Not at all?

Fucking philistines.

Anyway back to today’s stuff.

Labels
I don’t like labels, I don’t like being labelled. When you can be labelled as loads of different things, you tend to lose the person underneath and only see the label(s).

However, my main gripe about labels is related to clothes labels. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me. No, but a badly stitched label can make your day almost unbearable!

My new pulling pants (yeah, right) have a label stitched in to the inside of the waistband, but it seems to have been stitched in with that bloody plastic thread. As a result, it has really scratchy corners that really dig in and hurt. Fucking things. Forty quid they cost me, you’d have thought they could’ve put a comfortable label in at least.

There are some labels on t-shirts that are stitched low down into the side seam. They itch and scratch like bastards too. They put them in knickers and everything. Why? Why can’t they make a garment that is worn next to the skin comfortable? Hmmm, HMMMMM?

Another label problem is when the inside neck label sticks up above the collar of a jumper. However, this can have its advantages if some kind soul puts it in its proper position for me – that nice brush against the back of neck feeling is always guaranteed to cheer me up.

So that’s labels covered, what next?

Health and safety
Health and safety in the workplace should be the numero uno priority, always. Look after yourself, your colleagues and any visitors to your building.

On construction sites and transport depots and things, an aid to health and safety is high-visibility clothing – you know that bright yellow or orange stuff with the luminescent striping?

You can’t miss somebody out of the corner of your eye if they’re wearing a hi-vis vest. In fact, walking or driving round the streets of England at the moment and you’d be forgiven for thinking that EVERYBODY works in the construction industry since just about everybody you see seems to be wearing high visibility clothing.

• Construction workers,
• Traffic wardens,
• Street wardens,
• Street cleaners,
• Police officers,
• Plastic police officers,
• Cyclists,
• Wagon drivers,
• Construction site visitors,
• Public transport drivers,
• Transport workers,
• Delivery people –

They ALL wear the same yellow vests and coats. It’s really borin’.

You’re in a panic, you’re on the lookout for a copper, you can flag down any number of people before you find somebody who can help… and then they just give you a crime reference number for your insurance claim.

Nosy colleagues
I have a colleague who , since starting her job almost 3 years ago, has done nothing but complain about the workload while ensuring that most of her work gets passed on to other people, leaving the minimum for herself to do. A “team player” she ain’t, but she seems to me to be conniving, self-centred, manipulative and a just a bit devious. She has taken to complaining about when other people are having a chat (forgetting her incessant rabbiting at times), saying that she’s “really snowed under, but nobody else has anything to do”.

It’s not our fault if she’s ineffective with her workload and time management.

Anyway, everytime she hears voices from our office, she finds some excuse to come in and earwig, trying to butt into the conversation. Another colleague was talking to me this afternoon and she just waltzed in with some stuff that I’d sent through to the printer in her office.

Wow, thanks, I’ve never known you to help anybody else out before. Or did you just come in here to see if we were talking about you?

I’ve taken to closing our office door.

Nice too that she’s bagsied all her holidays without consulting with any of her colleagues first.

Ewww, slagging off colleagues, I’m losing it. Perhaps she’s just exhibiting the symptoms of stress, but she’s probably gone about things the wrong way if she wants to endear herself to people.

Connie’s performing breast
She’s still in hospital, but she’s happier than she was. Apparently, they put a big magnetic control unit over the pacemaker and they can alter most of the things without having to go back in an tweak them. They’ve altered it once and they’re going to do it again tomorrow.

Although I am absolutely delighted that she’s not as distressed as she was, I’m very disappointed not to have captured her performing bosom on video.

Later on, we’re with Tina as she discusses:

• Labels
• Health and safety issues
• Nosy colleagues
• Connie’s performing breast

But for now, it’s back to whatever other stuff you happened to be looking at on the internet while you were supposed to be getting on with some work.

Or you could check back every now and again to have a look at these stills from the second series of the L Word:

And this disgusting behaviour by a couple of “those women” in Canada:

My day, by Tina Cakesniffer

Get up at 9am.

Enjoy breakfast in front of PC, watching episodes 6 & 7 of series 2 of the L word. Ahhhh.

Get gym stuff on.

Travel to gym, avoiding mongs driving people carriers and Rovers in the middle lane of M60 at 50mph.

Endure an hour of torture at gym; in pain from weird ache in side and a slight muscle-pull in thigh, unable to breathe.

Travel home from gym, avoiding mongs driving people-carriers and Rovers in the middle lane of the M60 at 50mph.

Get showered and dressed. Hrrrm, these Docs do look oK with these jeans, but I prefer my Superstars…

Travel to Tesco, avoiding mongs driving people-carriers and Rovers in the middle lane of the M60 at 50mph. Avoid mong in Jaguar on roundabout who is trying to turn left from the right hand lane: “Just fuck off, you fucking mongoloid fucking retard!”

Fill hand basket with lots of heavy items: 5lb spuds;2 litres milk; bag of rapples; litre of Innocent fruit smoothy (treat); “tiger” loaf; shaving gel (couldn’t do my bits in the shower because I’d forgotten to buy some last time). Get to till: empty. Minor success recorded while I reach into my pocket for my wallet. SHIT! Where the fuck is it? “Sorry, I’ve forgotten my wallet.” “That’s OK, we at Tesco realise that many of our customers are complete fucking spastics, so, so long as you return by 4pm, we’ll put your stuff through and you can pay for it when you get back.”

Drive home, avoiding mongs, etc, etc

Pick up wallet, drive back to Tesco, avoiding more mongs, etc, etc, etc.

Buy stuff, avoid altercation between mongs in Tesco’s car park, go home

Ahhh, rela…. “Tina, I’m not happy with this pacemaker, I think one of the leads has dislodged and it’s making my bosom jump – look.”

“Oh yeah, that’s not right, but it’s a great party trick, have you considered tassles? How about phoning the hospital?”

“Yes, and they said to go to casualty. Would you mind taking me?”

“No, take yourfuckingself. You can drive now, can’t you?”

…

….

…..

……

No, of course I didn’t say that.

Jesus, my poor mum. Back in hospital, probably needing to be opened up again for them to readjust the leads from her pacemaker. And after all the pain and worry she went through last time too.

She’s a bit distressed. She’s about as distressed as my dad is completely shitting useless. at least he’s good at peeling oranges for me.

Poor Mum.

Still, if we go back to the beginning of my day, that was superb! I do love The L Word. In addition to the yummysteamy sex scenes, it has fantastic plotlines, humour, the LOT! If you haven’t seen any of it, try to, tis top notch. And that brings me on to another request: Connie (not Mum Connie, aircraft maintenance engineer Connie, get your friggin’ act together and send me the rest of those bloody CDs woman!

Let’s go burn somebody’s embassy down!

I went shopping this morning. I was at work the other day and caught my reflection in a glass door: my trousers looked really short. I realised that they’d been washed them on a normal 40°C cycle instead of woollens and they’d shrunk as a result. Either that or my arse has grown yet again and they were being pulled up because of it.

Skip to the end…

Anyway, bought a pair of work trousers – fifty five fucking robbing bastard quid – and went on the lookout for some “pulling pants”, or “jeans” to you lot. I was horrified to see that straight-legged jeans are back in fashion. Not only straight-led, but really rather tight-legged jeans. I realised this as I tried on a few pairs in River Island. I can’t wear anything like that, for fuck’s sake! My thighs alone have the circumference of many women’s waists and my calves are, well let’s just say, they’re “muscly”.

I don’t think so!

God, straight-legged jeans. Takes me back to my horrible youth when all the skinny girls wore the tightest jeans on the planet and I tried it, but looked like something that belonged in a freak show.

But anway, found some not bad ones, so should be all sorted for any future nights out. I am still concerned about footware though. Perhaps I’m too fussy. Perhaps I just conduct a poll here and let the readers decide.

OK, here you go, see what you think of these:

1. Converse All Stars (pumps)

2. Dr Marten’s boots

3. Kickers pumps

4. Kickers shoes

5. Adidas Superstars

6. Skechers shoes

Yes, I know that I have a huge arse and fat thighs. And yes, I have horrible furniture in my bedroom.

Asda – again
As much as I detest this shop, I keep finding myself in there on a Saturday, I must be a glutton for punishment. Today I needed Coffeemate (light of course). I roamed the aisles, I passed “Foreign foods”, I passed “BOOZE” and found myself at tea and coffee and shit like that. HUGE tubs of Coffeemate original, tiny tubs of Coffeemate light. Fuckers. It’s because people who shop there are all fat fuckers who don’t believe in light anything. Tossers.

I ended up getting some tortilla wraps for tonight’s tea and enjoyed a transaction in which I was clearly interrupting the conversation of two staff members, one of whom had just bought some socks at that till and was continuing to tell the checkout woman about the current range nightware at George at Asda. Don’t mind me. Ignorant cunts.

Bored
It’s now 1.35pm and I’m bored already. I wonder what I can do with the rest of my day. I know, I’ll go and sit next to the cat and, every time it looks like he’s going into a deep sleep, I’ll start disturbing him by poking him and purring. Little shit.

Oooooor, I could scan some more photos into my PC and continue my series of posts in which I reminisce about my past.

Ooooooor, I could kill my Dad, who is getting right on my tits.

I was at a conference today. It was actually very good in that there was a good mix of “professional” research types and health service patients and members of the public who have got involved in research.

It’s a very touchy-feely kind of subject, generally involving lots of qualitative research types (people I tend to laugh at). There’s a big drive for research into mental health services and a fair bit of activity in that field too. Again, this lends itself to research by the touchy-feelies, simply because of its nature.

I don’t know what it is with people who work in that sort of field, but they just irritate me. They look at you as if they’re trying to eat right into your mind, to gather your inner feelings, yet you never get the impression that they’re actually listening to you. They look (stare) at you, nodding and saying “Mmmm”, repeatedly.

Anyway, I was at the do today, listening to the talks and stuff, but I was constantly aware of a “Mmmm, mmmm, mmmm” noise from some woman that was sat at my table. Fuck’s sake, shut the fuck up you weirdo. It was as if she’d “shared” the experiences of each of the speakers and was in agreement with their findings because that’s what she’d found too.

“Mmmm, mmmm, mmmm, yeah, yeah, absolutely, yeah”.

Absolutely. I hate that too. “Oh yes, I absolutely agree with you.” Oh piss off, I don’t care if people agree with me half the time anyway since I just talk shite.

But there was a nice mix of “professionals” and “punters”. Of course, the punters represented all walks of life and had experienced all sorts of encounters with the health and social services. at one point, I went to the loo and held the door open for two women who were exiting as I was going in. As the first woman walked off, the lady behind her said “Watch where you touch that door, she didn’t wash her hands after using the toilet.” Fantastic.

Brown water
There were hot drinks on tap from a machine in the corner of the room. I opted for a “mocha”, which I believe is supposed to be hot chocolate with a shot of coffee (at least that’s what you get from Caffe Nero). This stuff was just sweet brown water. Fucking disgusting.

Pulling pants
I’ve been instructed to get my pulling pants on for the big gay night out. Well, “as my line manager”, I have to do as she says I suppose. Jesus, I wonder if I can get a note off my mum to excuse me. I have visions of this ending in a Thelma and Louise scenario. Still, should be a laugh.

I might just have to take one night off the wagon.

For some reason, I woke up at 1am with really hot knees and shins. I couldn’t get back to sleep till gone 3. By this time, I’d resorted to a cocodamol and, well, let’s just say I was ovulating and I had to do something about it… twice.

My life’s a goddam laugh a minute.

I had a recent e-mail request from a reader to describe what it feels like when I orgasm. How does “Oh, for fuck’s sake, is that it?” sound?

I know I’m a bit of an internet whore, but even I have standards. “Did the agency tell you that I’d be having a little widdle on ya? You know, just a little pee-pee.”

Another new reader also e-mailed me to congratulate me on my extensive use of profanities. Tthank you, it means a lot to know that I am building such a reputation. I don’t know what comes over me at times, these expletives just simpy explode from my fingertips. I think I’d benefit from some anger therapy, or a perhaps a shag, or just a decent night’s sleep.

Can you smell onions?
Tuesday’s sleep was interrupted by a strong smell of cooked onions and garlic that was permeating through the house. It was vile. There is something inherently wrong with cooking smells getting into your bedroom.

You can imagine certain people with laminated notice fixations having signs up all over their houses:

“No cooking outside the hours of 11.30am-1.30pm and 4.30pm-6.30pm!”

“All cooking smells must leave the premises by 9pm.”

I’d go along with that.

Give me some credit
I have some manageable credit card debt on a couple of cards. I decided to get a new credit card to consolidate this and benefit from 0% interest on the balance transfer for 9 months or so. Looking at the deals on the internet, I found a company that offered a competitive rate and went through the online application. The choice of card colours was novel and I decided on black – the other options being red or pink.

Imagine my delight when a pink card was delivered. I felt a bit of a fool having to phone them up to tell the customer services lady that “I really can’t cope with a pink card”, but she was very understanding and explained that there’d been a bit of a mix up, lots of people had received the wrong colour, and a new one would be sent out as soon as.

And people wonder why I don’t sleep at night.

“You lookin’ at me?”

“You lookin’ at ME?”

Yes, I fucking am fucking looking at you, you utter wanking cocksuker of a complete FUCKHEAD, I AM LOOKING AT YOU!

You’re a minicab driver. You aproach a roundabout at which you will be taking the third exit*. There are three lanes to choose as you approach the roundabout. Do you:

A) Position yourself in the right hand of the three lanes so that you can navigate the roundabout and exit at your desired point without any undue hazard?

B) Position yourself in the middle lane, but indicate that you would like to take the third exit from roundabout and move over into the correct position once you have let others who have chosen the correct, albeit much fucking slower right fucking hand bastard lane, pass?

c) Fly out from the left hand lane, cutting up the people who were correctly positioned on the roundabout?

Hrrrm, let’s think… Well, if you’re a complete cunt (as most minicab drivers are) and you’re driving a silver Vauxhall Vectra (says it all), then you obviously go for option C because you don’t care about the safety of your passenger, other road users, or the fact that you’re a complete COCK and you don’t mind everybody on the road seeing this.

I was forced to sound my horn as a rebuke. Why won’t anybody let me have a rocket launcher? The world would be a much better place if I had a taser, rocket launcher and an AK47. Oh and a big fuck off tank.

I’m going to suggest that all local councils set up a website where you can enter the registration or taxi licence number of any minicab that fuck’ you off. When the count for any individual reaches ten over a specified period, a special squad is called upon to BURN THEIR FUCKING HOUSE DOWN!

Wankers.

They fly about at twice the speed limit, driving up the arses of those who don’t particularly want to break-the-sound-barrier-today-thank-you-very-much. They are obnoxious, stupid, retarded fucking cunts who are a menace.

Anyway, if anybody from Salford City Council, that’s www.salford.gov.uk, does trawls of the web to see who’s linking to them, I hope they pick this up and I hope they run a check on that cunt who almost caused a serious accident because he couldn’t be arsed to get in the right lane and queue up for a bit. His taxi licence number is 2972 and his reg was Y something, something, something LBT. Wanker.

Asian babe road rage
Of course, this wasn’t the only incident that got my back up on my journey home this evening. There was some hold up somewhere and the traffic had been queuing for an age to take a left turn at a junction*. There I was, having finally reached sight of the junction minding my business, when this car full of dolled-up Asian lasses** aligned itself next to me and indicated to join the queue in front of me. I’m sorry love, but why the fuck should I let you in when the rest of us have been queueing for half an hour to reach this point? Of course, I shouted “FUCK OFF!” through the window. And you know what? They were actually shocked that I was angry and that I didn’t just let them pull in.

But you know what made it worse? The fucking tit behind me in the queue actually let them in. You see, I’d actually choose to kneecap those that let these fuckers queue jump. If queuejumpers knew for certain that they’d never, EVER, get away with it, they wouldn’t do it. Queue jumping only happens because people let them in and it is these tossers that need very severe punishment.

I have a sore throat.

*Those who drive on the opposite side of the road need to read this in a mirror.
**Of course, they being Asian has no bearing on this story whatsoever, but it gave me an excuse to get “Asian babe” in, which is always good for the hits.

Get out, stay out
I’ve had such fun working with my stand in line manager (the gay one). She’s due to finish with us in May after covering for mat leave. At first I thought she was a bit of a nightmare, but there was always a side to her that I liked. (Not really like that though, I’ve learned to blank off any of those thoughts and feelings where “married” folk are concerned). She’s become more relaxed over recent months and she’s actually very nice and very competent.

Of course, she has suspected from very early on that I too am gay, but I don’t really talk about my sexuality, mainly for the reason that, well, errr, I don’t get any and I find that more embarrassing (a bit like Dafydd, the only gay in the village). So this was never really confirmed to her, other than by me saying things like “I’m not mad keen on children, I certainly don’t want any and I much prefer cats”, or while joking about why I couldn’t have an affair with a female colleague, “No, I couldn’t possibly do that, you’re married… and you have a child”. These (and my obsession with the Kill Bill films) are dead giveaways as far as I’m concerned, but my straight colleagues don’t get it. Dur.

Skip to the end…

In an e-mail exchange yesterday, she asked me if I’d seen any of The L Word because she and her partner had watched some of the DVDs in between hanging wallpaper. I replied that it must’ve been hard to hang paper straight after watching that and that after watching The L Word, you think you’re missing out, but there’s some consolation in knowing that that it’s not real . And the next thing I know, she’s trying to arrange a night out down Canal Street.

Nice one.

Today, I was complaining about my hair needing cutting and she asked if I’d ever had it really short. No, and I’ve never worn dungarees or gone on a Pride march either.

I am going to KILL my dad.

I don’t know how, but it’ll involve lots of shouting and spitting and me being red in the face while I get all my internalised anger out of my system. Not that much of my anger is internalised, but I’d like the opportunity to make him ackowledge all the fucking stupid and annoying and down right MENTAL things that he does that put my nerves right on edge.

Tonight’s teeth-grinding is brought to you in association with Fairy washing up liquid. Yes, my dad’s “method” for doing the pots has my blood pressure rocketting into the danger zone to the point where I need to ensure that I’m out of reach of all sharp objects, heavy blunt instruments and Glocks.

My method for washing dishes:

• Rinse used plates and pans and leave to the side of the sink
• Put all cutlery into empty sink
• Clear draining board
• Put on household gloves in order that nice hot water can be used
• Use a washing up sponge/scourer throughout the procedure
• Squirt some washing up liquid into sink, start running the water
• While the sink is filling, start washing glassware, followed by cups – rinse each one and allow to drain
• Follow glassware and cups with plates and dishes
• Pan lids
• Cutlery
• Change water
• Wash pans
• If the draining board becomes too full, drain the pans on a tea towel that has been places on the worktop
• Wipe down work surfaces with soapy sponge followed by a Flash wipe
• Leave dishes to dry
• Put away

Dad’s method for washing dishes:

• Chuck everything into the sink (irrespective of whether it contains manky cold water from when the pasta, rice or veg were drained)
• Add a blob of Fairy Liquid
• Half-threaten with a Spontex sponge (no scouring capability)
• Rinse in cold water
• Dump on draining board that’s still full of pots that haven’t been put away
• Leave everything, OR
• Wipe everything and then put them back onto the draining board

I thought that, since I’d been at work all day and got home late after a meeting, he’d do the pots this evening, but no. No, he didn’t (a blessing in disguise) but he really helped out by dumping a load of dishes into the sink (full of manky cold water), despite the fact they were covered in tomato-pasta sauce. No pre-rinsing for our dad, no way! That’s for sissies and people who want to eat off clean crockery.

He’s now clanging the dishes rather than letting them dry. If you rinse dishes in nice hot water, they dry on their own in no time, you do not, NOT, NOT need to dry them with a dish towel.

Oooh, my head.