The plughole was growing tiresome of this menace, this looming eye over it, watching, it’s long neck cocked out, waiting for something to happen. The tap had spent every day since installation spying (maybe that’s too subtle a word) on the plughole.
The plughole often got self conscious as a result, and even tried to curtail itself via a prolonged conversation with the visitors that travel through it’s fine establishment; the odd carrot slice here, an onion slice there, even the odd hair!
But this didn’t stop the peeping tap.
He even got specialists in, to cover himself, when his own power wasn’t enough; the tap’s sickly orgasm at the thought of the plughole, which made it’s thirst even more insatiable.
And of course the plug couldn’t help, he (without telling the house owners) decided to go on a world tour to china and back, and landed in the bathroom sink instead, the fool!
The plughole grew rusty and indifferent after some time, but never fully recovered emotionally.
Around a year ago I came in from a night out, a tad intoxicated. In my kitchen I looked around me and I wanted to be productive, as was clearly the sensible thing to do at 4am. And I suppose I was; I ended up writing a collection of micro-stories about the collection of items in my kitchen. I was looking through that notepad today and I decided I’d let them see the light of air, as nonsensical as they may be.
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