Mops. How they’ve vexed me.
I had one when I moved into my new flat, but the other half decided to get rid of it.
“You don’t need it. ” she opined knowingly. “The kitchen is barely five feet square, it’ll just get in the way. ”
I’ve often ruminated on this womanly wisdom and the unfortunate events it led to when, after getting down on my knees for an hour and a half to painstakingly clean that self same kitchen floor with a hand sponge, the lady in question dropped a large blob of peanut butter smack bang in the middle.
Had there been a real mop to hand, I can’t help but think that I wouldn’t have had to bash her brains out with a frying pan and use her hair as a substitute.
Fortunately I was able to dispose of the body in the Thames and escaped without consequence. Much as Jerry Bruckheimer manages to do with his latest foray into action/adventure nonsense.
