Coffee cups and checklists

It is asserted, by those who know such things, that the independent
single man is a dying breed. Certainly, there is something to be said
for this point of view. How many single men do you know that are
happily unattached and independent? Good cooks and efficient
housekeepers? Add immaculate social graces to the equation and you can
count them on the grooves on your little finger.

The other day I sat down and made myself a checklist - to see if I
belonged to this esteemed fraternity. I ticked ' unattached', 'single'
and 'happy to stay that way' and felt a warm glow. I could FEEL I
belonged! I carried on ticking. Just as I began to see myself being
elected president of the local chapter of the Worldwide Independent
Men's Preservation Society, disaster struck. I discovered I'd flunked
out on every item under the heading 'Housekeeping'. I was a bad
housekeeper! I didn't belong in WIMPS! Oh, black day! I sat in stunned
silence as my dreams of grandeur vanished before my eyes.

When I had recovered sufficiently from this crippling blow I decided to
make myself a cup of coffee, to steady my nerves. Bad housekeeper, I
fumed, as I looked for a clean coffee cup. What did the checklist know?
Only the realisation that I'd drawn it up myself prevented me from
calling down the Curse of Ronster the Monster upon the head of its
author. I salvaged a cup from those in the sink. It had only been there
two days and, being at the top, had become quite dry. I blew into it to
drive out the vestiges of an earlier serving and wiped it with the end
of my T-shirt. Putting it down on the table top I surveyed it with a
critical eye. Here was a clean, dry coffee cup. Bad housekeeper my
foot.

I spilled some coffee grains on the floor. That's the trouble with
using your fingers -some of the stuff always manages to slip out. No
matter, though. It was the work of a moment to stoop down with dustpan
and scoop the truant grains back into the cup. Brilliant work! You
couldn't even see that there had been coffee on the floor. And
perfectly hygienic, too. Any germs -surely trained by the KGB - who
might have escaped my attention would be killed when I poured boiling
water into the cup - I ask you, is that brilliant housekeeping or
what?

Sipping the stimulating caffeine concoction, I sauntered into the
living room and flopped into my armchair. Sure enough, I spilt some
coffee. That wasn't such a bad thing since most of it fell on me rather
than on the furniture. The trouble was it was hot. Boiling hot, in
fact. Now, I wish I hadn't made it so hot. Then I wouldn't have danced
around the room swearing at the coffee cup. And I wouldn't have knocked
over the coffee table and empty dishes on it from last Sunday's dinner.
And they wouldn't have fallen on one another and shattered. And I
wouldn't have tripped over my running shoes and fallen and driven a
large shard of china through my rear end. It's a lucky thing I'm rather
well padded.

So, here I am lying on my stomach listening to the voices of the nurses
and feeling that, no matter what the checklist says, in my heart I
belong to WIMPS. Checklists are made to be wrong - I KNOW I AM a good
housekeeper!

After all - how many single unattached men do you know who can crush
broken bits of china to powder underfoot and sweep them under the rug
to leave not a trace behind, while trying to stem the flow of blood
purely by touch?