It’s the weekend and Catherine is ‘on’ one. She’s decrying the state of the house, the mess, the dirty carpets and the dust and as always I’m the punching bag that stands between her and nuclear fission. Admittedly the house is in a bit of a state, but it’s hardly in ‘How clean is my house’ territory. I don’t feel that we’re in danger of Aggy and the other one marching up the garden path in their starched white overalls, bog brush in hand, ready to check the downstairs bog for u-bend skids. But when my lovely wife is one of these particular moods, you’d have more luck arguing the toss with a strung-out crystal-meth hungry crack head.
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