I was at the laundry sink hoping no-one would notice me. It wasn’t to be.
“Why are you washing your thongs?” my wife wanted to know.
Considering I’d never done this before it was a fair, if unwelcome, question.
The answer to which could be found in a ‘discussion’ we had a week earlier.
“Why,” I asked my wife with enough tone to warrant a bitch-slap, “would you empty the vacuum into the bin in the kitchen?”
“I do it all the time,” she told me.
And instead of shutting up I took another shot. Presumably, because I had a headache and wanted a swift death.
“No, you don’t,” I scoffed. “I’m always emptying the vacuum. Properly. In the wheely bin.”
No, I don’t. I’ve done it like twice. And both those times were about a year ago when we first bought it and there was a novelty element.
Rather than kill me, as I so obviously deserved, Tracey turned her back and walked away.
Which I took as a win!
“Now every time I put something in the bin there’s going to be a cloud of yuck,” I threw after her.
Though not too loudly. After all, I was already wearing the metaphorical yellow jersey.
But now I had a point to prove.
So a week later, when the vacuum was suddenly (miraculously, given it had only needed one emptying in a year) full again, I removed the bag-container-thingame-section and marched it straight out to the wheely bin.
Well, maybe not straight out. But it only required a small detour to ensure I marched it purposefully past my wife.
“Going outside to the bin to empty this properly,” I informed her. Because, you know, if I go missing she’s going to want to be able to tell the police my final movements.
Clearly, she was thinking along the same lines.
“Good for you,” she mumbled. “Don’t get lost.”
So that was that. Point made. Doneskies.
All that remained was for me to empty the damn thing.
As I approached the bin I looked at the thing in my hands. You’ve got to give it to those Dyson people, I thought to myself, they make it pretty easy. There was a red button with a clear image of an open bin.
I pressed the button to release the top of the cylinder…
…and the entire bottom fell away from the unit and dumped the dusty pile of yuck onto my thong clad foot.
Karma, I hate you just as much as you appear to hate me.
“Raising a family on little more than laughs.”