To clean the fridge or not to clean the fridge, that is the question. ( And isn't it interesting how one can write that as a statement without a question mark? ) Something is rotten in there and it is not the state of Denmark.

I bet Princess Mary is not cleaning her fridge today .. SO WHY SHOULD I? I bet JK Rowling is not cleaning her fridge today .. SO WHY SHOULD I? I bet Naomi Campbell is not cleaning fridges today .. oh hang on, she might be, I know she's done a few toilets recently.. . Anyway, now is the opportune moment because there is hardly any edible food left in the fridge so all the dead, diseased and decomposing stuff is plainly visible from the front. But two of the Three Little Pigs were utter maggots last night at tea time and caused me to miss the Makeover episode on The Biggest Loser - so I am not feeling kindly disposed to anything that adds pleasantness to their existence today . How can one miserable child take one wretched hour to eat one measly organic, free-range, roast chicken drumstick?

I will feed him witchetty grubs next time. Though this be madness, yet there is method in it. Maggot!

Oh, how I suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune! That's why I am sitting here, dear readers, in a tracksuit pondering the philosophy of refrigeration instead of preparing for my next news conference in my snazzy pink power suit.

I supppose I could do a Naomi and don a floor length, silver lame evening gown before I put on some rubber gloves AND RETAIN MY PRIDE. 'Tis nobler in my mind.

There is an awful lot of dignity stuck to the back of those shelves from some spilt yoghurt that I'm going to have to scrape off. Then I'll have to sluice up the swill of self worth that has gone gooey in the vegetable crisper. And I have jars and jars of nearly empty dreams cemented in place all around the corners that I'll need to prise off,... shuffle off, even. Aye, there's the rub. Sigh*

I could a tale unfold whose lightest word would harrow up they soul, freeze thy young blood, make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres, thy knotted and combined locks to part, and each particular hair to stand on end, like quills upon the fretful porpentine. But I won't. I don't want to remember the last time I cleaned it out again.

So, will I do this thing rank and gross in nature, or won't I?

The good news is that I am kind of running out of time now.

I

love

the

internet; a place of infinite jest , of most excellent fancy and refrigerator emancipation!
:-)
(And irony if you read my previous post.) :-)

:-) :-)