One day after I had done a massive clean of the kitchen (emptied and cleaned inside all the cupboards, fridge, breadbin and sideboard; cleaned the oven; scrubbed the floor on hands and knees with an olde worlde scrubbing brush; washed the windows; cleaned the doors and handles of everything with a door or a handle; even dusted the fucking light fitting; EVERYTHING) I came home to find my then-partner exhausted and close to death on the sofa.
Me: omg are you ok? What's happened, are you hurt?
Him: (weakly points to the kitchen)
At this point I am imagining I will find a dead bear in there, or at least 3 burglars.
Me: w-what...?
Him: I've cleaned it.
There was no dead bear. There was a smeary floor and a bucket and mop still out, and a strong smell of carpet shampoo. The hob showed the remains of popped bubbles and a gel-like lump of fairy liquid. The bin was scratched to buggery like some fuckwit had cleaned it with a brillo pad. The dishwasher was full and dirty. The oven door smelt of polish and the door handle was sticky.
Me: but why.
Him: so, so tired.......I'm aching ..... can you run me a bath......so tired......
Me: Any recollection at all of me cleaning it yesterday? Like when you got the hump and stomped off to the pub after waltzing in and saying "are you doing a roast?" to my arse, because the rest if me wad under the sink and I said "no, I'm cleaning this midden, it's disgusting in here" - remember that.....?
Him: (face of sadness slowly morphs into expression of horror, humiliation and anger that he had been tricked into cleaning his own kitchen even though he hadn't been at all) Nnnnoooooooooo.....,
Me: please undo whatever you did, and order a takeaway unless you plan on feeding me something that smells like Mr Fucking Sheen.
HE TOOK TO BED.
fgs