A dreaded sunny day.
Every single speck of dust, crumb, scratch, fluff, blueberry, teabag showing up in all their appalling thereness 'pon the wood floor.
Crumbs are the worst. I hate them. They are the devils own work [1] and there's not the woman [2] born I wouldn't throw out of bed for making them.
All I wanted to do today was crawl back into bed until it was dark and the house was clean again.
[1] of course, there's no such thing as the devil, that's just God when he's drunk
[2] or, indeed, man
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