Dear Mozzer (if I may be so Rusholme Ruffian to call you by such a sobriquet):
This may sound rank, but is there any way that you can come around to my place and do the dishes? Hopefully I don’t sound too Pope of Mope, but I can only fantasize that you at least might read this blog and think about the way water drains in the western hemisphere.
I shall try to persuade you like a good suedehead of the importance of good clean dishes and cutlery. Certain people I know refuse to believe in clean dishes. (And I don’t need to tell you who these people are because, as you know, that’s how some people grow up).
Stop me now, of course, if you’ve heard this one before, but another famous rocker who goes by the name Bryan Ferry got up to his elbows in suds at my place. That’s because I love the perverse and the contrary in my kitchen, which is a custodian for twentieth-century, Modernist appliances. (Except right now my toaster isn’t working.)
It would be such a fulfillment to my Fairy Liquid, soft sponge, and the baked-on vegetable goulash (meat is murder, damn it!) if you would consider standing before my sink. I dream to see you run the hot and cold taps, the draining board bulging and spilling over with the weight of clean dishes.
Any other kitchen just won’t do. It won’t! Because such a little thing makes such a big difference. (It’s a bona drag, I know, but come on, you always need a clean fork by your side.)
History demands it — and just remember, the more you ignore me, the closer I’ll get. (And you should know all about that since you wrote it).
Mozzer, the doors of my kitchen are open to you, wherever you may be: the bathroom, the closet, the master bedroom.
With warm, soapy wishes
PS. I used to be a sweet boy, but no more if you refuse my request. In fact, you’ll be the first of your gang to squeeze suds if you don’t pop over.