Listen, I'm not a cruel person. Honestly, I'm not. For instance, I preserve cobwebs in the top corners of every room. Those poor spiders have taken so long to create these works of art, it hardly seems fair to brush them away with one swish of a feather duster. (That's what I tell Peter, anyway.)
I also rescue wiggly worms when I'm sweeping the yard.
HOWEVER
This morning I was laughing like a drain (which is a very silly expression, but that's for another blog, another day.)
It was the story of the woman who was heating up her pyjamas in the microwave, then forgot about them...
...and set fire to her house.
(In my defence, she escaped pretty much unscathed.)
It was just the idea of heating up pyjamas in the microwave that got me. As if I'd do anything quite as silly. Or, indeed, as if any member of my family would.
Apart from vacuuming up a pile of vomit in the Dyson. (You know who you are!) The diced carrots looked almost picturesque as they swirled around the drum the next time I wanted to hoover the carpet.
Fear of accidental conflagration is the very reason I have a timer on my desk. The countless occasions I've put potatoes on to boil and thought 'I'll just go upstairs and write a couple more sentences while I'm waiting...'
Then, an hour later...
I didn't notice Peter laughing very much. Schadenfreude plainly isn't his thing.
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