So there I was, in the kitchen, standing proud in front of a stack of well-washed crockery. After a bit of to-ing and fro-ing I was contemplating the drying stage when I noticed a small pool of blood on the worktop. I mopped it up and then noticed more on the floor, forming a trail that led into the lounge.
I duly cleaned all that too, and returned to the sink to rinse my hands. On the worktop was more blood...
Absolutely convinced that I'd already mopped it up, I did the job again, only to notice another trail back to the lounge. Off I went again, cloth in hand, in clean-up mode.
Back in the kitchen there was yet more blood. On worktops, appliances, towels, door-handles... Hmm...
While cleaning up the mess and trying to suss the mystery, I saw red-brown streaks all over the recently-washed crockery, so I washed it again. Standing there, I noticed that my Raichles were starting to stick to the floor, so I looked down to find that I was standing in a puddle of the red stuff. Moreover, the stuff was on my trousers and cuffs. And it was p155ing out of my finger. A neat, deep, clean cut, no doubt accidentally self-inflicted during the washing-up process.
Only then did I realise that I'd been tracking and recreating my own trails, in a bizarre Robinson-Crusoe-footprints-on-the-beach sort of way.
What a pillock.
But what about the first trail to the lounge?
Just after finishing the initial load of washing-up, I'd emptied the tumble-drying contraption and carried the clean/dry clothes to the ironing-basket in the lounge. Needless to say, I'm now doing the laundry... again...
Arse.
