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Sometimes, when I'm doing the washing up, I imagine there's a family of teeny-tiny people that live at the end of the drain pipe...
...a community even...
...and that whatever escapes down the sink will feed them, sustain them.
So when I'm washing the rice and some of the grains go down the hole, I'm there thinking 'yes, I'm doing my bit for charity'.
Bits of sweetcorn, bits of fresh meat from when I'm giving the chicken a good rinse, water drained from the can of kidney beans and tuna, the coffee/tea I didn't quite finish.
When I run the tap, I imagine said little people have some kind of medieval but highly-efficient mechanism that separates the hot from the cold water and preserves it at said temperature.
I apologise to said little people for my washing machine. For every time I turn it on, it smells out the place when it reaches a particular point in its wash cycle. It can't be that pleasant for them at their end.
I'd try pouring some bleach down the drain to stop what I now call 'washing-machine farts', but I fear for the safety of my little friends. I don't think they could cope. And even if they could, what if they crawled their little butts up the drain in anger and tried to kill me in a Gulliver's Travels stylee?
Not good.
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