Readers will recall that I suffer from an habitual and incurable clumsiness previously associated only with the clinically unbalanced or thoroughly drunk

(remember this?) 

One would have thought this more than enough for any woman to bear, and thus afflicted, the universe would leave me be.

But the universe is in bitchy mood and has decided to test my patience further, this time by way of inanimate objects.  Mundane household objects that, notwithstanding their insentience, have begun to fight back.

Like every parent, I have long since realised that I can bend my children to my will only to a limited extent.  Sometimes I get my way, more often I do not. Contrary to popular opinion, this applies in equal measure to my spouse; and now I think of it, even my spaniels are wilfully disobedient.

Even without that context I had hoped, if not assumed, that general domestic appliances would be unable to join the fray.  It’s only fair that within my household something, somewhere, will just do as it is bloody well told. 

It started in small ways – milk cartons that would not open and yoghurt pots that spat at me as their foil lids finally gave way.  The anarchy spread quietly, almost unnoticeably.  Scissors snap under minimal pressure and mugs fling themselves to the floor, smashing dramatically on the kitchen tiles.  It’s inexplicable.  Nothing does what it should, when it should, and it is driving me insane.  The washing machine pretends that it has begun a cycle, but switches off as soon as I leave the room.  The remote will not work until it’s so close to the TV that I might as well have got up and changed the channel by hand.  Seat belts will not clunk click.  The list is endless and I have become convinced that gremlins follow me around the house subverting and disrupting as I slowly go stark staring bonkers.

And so it was that, last Tuesday, Fireman found me on my knees in the kitchen, stabbing at a tin of dog food with the bread knife; the floor around me littered with broken can openers and bent forks.
   
“WHY!” I was (apparently) sobbing. “I mean why do you even CARE? You’re a tin of DOG FOOD.  You’re SUPPOSED to open!”

Fireman gently removed the sharp objects and patted me on the shoulder.
   
“Are they fighting back again darling?”  He said, before neatly opening the can and feeding two ravenous dogs.

Gremlins, I tell you.  Bastard bloody woman hating gremlins.