I opened the fridge to get something for the dinner and it was – well, you know the way fridges get when you haven’t cleared them out in about six months. To be truthful, it was fucking minging. There was a smell out of it that would make a shark retch.
Shit, I said, I’d better clean this thing out.
Now, the best way to do this is to be methodical, so I started clearing the shelves one by one, carefully examining each item before deciding what to do with it.
I have a simple enough system:
It’s quick and it works. I was down to the bottom shelf within minutes, with a fetid pile of offal in the bin, another stinking quivering heap of crap in the fire and the hairy stuff waiting to be separated into possibles and probables. After this all I’d need to do was scrape the dried up food particles and the congealed gravy off the shelves. That was when I knocked over a bowl of old soup that spilled all down the front of my shirt and fell with a big splat of gunk all over the floor.
Fuck!! I snarled, reasonably. Fuck Fuck Fuck!!
I turned to reach for the mop when, suddenly a thought came to me.
Why am I doing this? Why am I mopping up a big pool of soup when I have two perfectly good dogs to clean up the kitchen floor?
Satan! I called. Dermot!
As one dog, they were upon me and as one they hoovered up all the foul-smelling gunk.
Great, I thought, when the floor was completely clean, for the first time in about a year. What a great idea. Now fuck off, dogs!
But then, I thought,
Hold on a minute! If they can clean up the floor then why not . . .?
So that’s where they are now. Cleaning up the fridge. I’ll let them out in a minute.