Women

 I bet this gets read - well, at least looked at!

Ok, there are at least a couple of things I love about women. Let's face it, if I had some I'd just sit in all day and feel myself, cut out the middle woman. But girlie-types come with other stuff, and there lies the problem.

Take for instance the former Mrs Pither. She decided Pither Towers (aka The Boulevard of a Thousand Broken Dreams) was in need of a bit of a spruce up. Well, that's not wholly truthful. In fact she said I was one discarded loo roll/fag end/fungal growth/interesting stain away from a council demolition order and a World Health Organisation grant.

That in mind, she came over today to say she had hired a cleaner who would be coming over later to check out the pad and see what work would be needed. Fair enough, I thought, but what followed baffled me and underlined my belief in the basic insanity of our XX-chromosomed chums.

You see, the ex-Mrs P set about cleaning the house from top to bottom, prior to the arrival of Mrs Mop! Why? I mean, what is the point in cleaning something someone else is coming to clean? "Oh, I don't want her to see it unvacuumed." Why, when she's coming to vacuum?

This logic had been tested before, however, so I should have known. You see, the former Pitherette used to insist on washing empty dog tins, bottles, jars and containers before they were put into the recycling bin. Again I ask, why? Did she believe guys at the council tip were all members of the Royal Ballet? Perhaps she thought all our recyclables were destined for art installations at Tate Modern? Was it fear that her mother would make a spot inspection and chalk us down by comparison with the Goebbells at No. 23?

Maybe it's just me?