Ah the odd intelligensi pursuit of the day, releasing Ishtar my switchblade wielding Françoise's Monkey to duel with Clik, a brand-spanking new factory standard death-ray wielding roomba. Oh the charming hours of fun the help had cleaning up the fetid mess and plastic shrapnel as I strolled the garden in search of that illusive spot of midnight... where did I put that pony I asked for for last birthday, the one who needed botox only weeks later because it looked tired after only three days on the perpetual living carousel. Like my late father, the Baron Von-something-o-other, I've long since abandoned Names for name dropping, unlike Vanhilda Von Hurstburg and her trollop-y son Oswald, I never expect much of the help these days look at the poor broken thing by the dust bin. Bit's of spring and hair and plastic all about. It smells of the sweatshops it was made in. It simply won't do. I look at the way it wheezed to it's resting position a sad and pathetic excuse for a modern domestic, How dare they!
-"I nearly stepped on a bit of the broken roomba you insolent bitch!" I say in my genteel of manners, perhaps a bit forceful but you must be stern the days as Mumy used to say.
"You lazy Domestic! Pick this up at once or I'll have you deported!"
They simply don't make them like they used to.