The brush watched a lot of daytime television. Too much some might say. It worked during the day, you see.

It was up to date with all of the soaps and the goings on on Oprah; It also followed closely celebrity culture, and when the Brazilian wax fad came into the frame it became intrigued.

The hoover was so elegant and slick and the brush wanted to be just like it. So one day it happened. The brush went Brazilian. Back, sack and crack.

It quickly realised how much of a mistake it had made. The chaffing it suffered was immense. Every evening a new layer of scratches and scores appeared on it’s bald head.

It was considering quitting it’s job.

So the brush tried to remedy the situation. It tried products like Rogaine for example; no luck. It tried a toupee; No luck. It tried a fibre transplant from it’s shaft; a splintery bad effort.

Eventually, it just had to face it’s fate; a decapitation would be necessary.

The end.

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.

Number 6 is over and out, but you may well hang about cause tomorrow will bring number 7: I will judge you if you don’t read it.