Anyway, just in case you were in danger of believing my life to be glamorous, let me share this with you:
Well, let me put you out of your misery, and tell you this: it's the interior of a dishwasher filter that has inadvertently copulated with a washing up sponge.
To add insult to injury, I have no phone, TV, or internet - merci Bouygues Telecom, and every stage of the process to get them fixed is more painful and time consuming than the last. My personal favourite was when somebody in customer services finally broke down and told me that she simply didn't have time to talk to me anymore; those of you that know me, permission to smirk, and those of you that have not had the pleasure...
Ok, so coming back to the task in hand, how does one liberate a washing-up sponge from the jaws of a dishwasher filter? Well, first you have to keep poking the sponge as you try to pincer it in-between two very small fingers only to find that this technique actually rams the sponge further into the tube. Then, as a side order, you accidentally rip the fingers off the rubber gloves that are allegedly protecting your nails (why bother?), and finally you strike on this:
Yes, ladies, those are eyebrow tweezers.
Anyway, following that experience, I am now trying to rewrite the Mad Men episode that's due er, tomorrow. And as a result of drafting scenes of domestic violence involving Betty Draper, it's dawned on me that I am getting very creative in the use of household implements as weapons. Question is, do you think it's only women that see the kitchen as an armory? (See Mr and Mrs Smith for the common stereotype, Brad bien sur, keeps his guns in the shed...)
Either way, somewhere out there in my imagination there is a technician from Bouygues Telecom hung with a pair of nylons then drawn and quartered with a stiletto heel (everyday household objects chez the Euro). It's what Braveheart would have looked like if directed by Anna Wintour...