So yesterday, I had to fly back to Stansted still feeling hung over from the previous night, a night during which I had managed to insult almost every member of my family individually, and then told them collectively to go fuck themselves. Or something along those lines. Not that I wasn’t provoked, my family are what you might deem provocative. Upon successfully returning home without being sick, which was a close run thing, what with having to get a bus, a train and then a tube from the airport, I went straight to my precious laptop, which had been left in the kitchen in my absence.
Why was my most expensive possession in the kitchen, one might ask. Does it double as a fridge? Is it useful as a doorstop, or coaster of some kind? No indeed, my laptop is in the kitchen because Bulldog Broadband sent me what is quite possibly the worst adsl modem in existence, and because none of my housemates currently have a PC. While waiting for it to boot up I filled myself a glass of water from the tap, which may not seem relevant at this point but is in fact a salient element of the story.
I open up my web browser, and instantly I am hit by a river of shit. Adult web sites, a hundred different pop-up windows… I am bombarded with pictures of scantily clad females touching each other, and a dozen fucking installation requests from all the pieces of cyber-trash that have managed to lodge themselves in my hard drive. To call myself unimpressed by this turn of events would be the understatement of approximately 4 centuries. It is at this point that I pick up the glass of water, and realise that it is grey.
Exasperated with this clear lack of a correctly functioning universe, I set down the glass of water, and go to get my washing. Upon returning to the kitchen I open the door of the washing machine. I suddenly realise at this juncture that since picking up the glass of water, the part of my brain which is not running through all the possible methods of killing Josh for downloading porn, has been attempting to call my attention to something else, namely “Why the fuck was the water such a funny colour?”, a question whose immense pertinence strikes me at about the same time as the stream of disgusting mucky water coming out of the washing machine.
In summary, our water is bust.
I cannot express in words how delighted and enchanted I am by this new adventure. Perhaps an interpretive dance in which I repeatedly bang my head off a brick wall would encompass my feelings more completely. There have been times in my life when I spend several minutes screaming internally the question “Why is nothing ever easy?!