We have a cleaner who comes once a fortnight. We have a cat we love like a child. He's a beautiful cream burmese with a heart of gold. Naturally, he's an indoor cat, I don't want him eating birds or getting squashed under some bogan's penis replacement. So he isn't streetwise, to put it mildly. He wouldn't last very long if he strolled off up the road. He only goes out in our enclosed yard, under supervision. The cleaner knows this, they've been told this is the most important thing in the world to us. Repeatedly.
They outsourced the job to someone else. This in itself could be ok, they mentioned it to us first. The new person must have left the front door open. I came home and the cat was in the little garden next to the road, soaking wet, crying. He'd been outside for hours in the rain. We were so lucky he hadn't strayed from the house. I was so angry I couldn't string a sentence together on the phone to beloved.
We've spoken to the cleaner, they've given assurances. But I don't know, if people can't respect what's most important to you, how can you trust the fuckorgans inside your house? If they fucked up, and the cat was killed, they'd pay big time.
I'll be a psycho dad one day, I can see it.
Hazlitt and the glazier’s fallacy - I’ve been working for quite a while now on a book which will respond to Henry Hazlitt’s Economics in One Lesson an adaptation of Bastiat for a modern US au...
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