I never understood people who put mini-cacti in their home. Because cacti are covered in thorns.
What does a plant have to do, exactly, for you to understand that you need to mind your own business? Slap your gran around? What a plant has to do? They’re covered in stings, they’re like knives.
They’re the West Ham football hooligans of the floral world. You don’t put a football hooligan – but mini – on top of your fridge, above a Majorca magnet and one of your daughter’s shitty drawings, because it wants to kill you. What the fuck are you doing?
When God made the cactus, most probably, this is the conversation that has happened:
“So, cactus, I can see from your file that you love people. You really love people.”
“Well, I’d love to be as precise as possible on this point, because I believe that there must be a typo, seeing how heavily people get on my tits.”
“Well, they’re made in my image, so it’s a bit insulting, but still, no problem! No problem! Last night I was shitfaced, and I invented this thing: it’s called thorns, or quills, okay? And I put them all on a massive mouse, and I called it – listen here – porcupine. Not mouseupine. No, no. Porcupine, because I’m an artist, out of control.”
And the cactus said:
“I like this thorns thingy, I like it. If at all possible, I’d also love to have a kalashnikov.”
“No, bro, no… no need. No. Listen here, listen: you’re green, and covered in thorns. And they are made in my image. They’ll understand. They will.”
Every cactus on top of a fridge right now is:
“PISSIN’ HEEEEELL! THEY GIFT ME INSIDE A WEDDING FAVOUR! FUUUUUUUCK!”
Don’t ever place a firearm next to a cactus. Don’t tempt fate like that.
Ah, cooking. The ancient, noble tradition that’s somehow evolved from “slaughter your own food over an open flame” to “grill pre-marinated chicken breasts in a vacuum-sealed plastic bag for three hours.” The once-primal art of preparing meals has managed to transform into a tedious, soul-crushing process where you follow five-minute recipe videos that promise to make you feel like a culinary god, but instead leave you questioning every decision you’ve ever made in your life.
Let’s be real here. Cooking is a war zone. It’s you against a flaming stove, an army of blades that refuse to chop correctly, and a kitchen that smells like the aftermath of an industrial accident. You think you’re ready to make a simple dinner—maybe something elegant like a stir-fry—and next thing you know, you’re crouched on the floor, staring at a charred onion, wondering if you’ve just pissed two hours away for a handful of soggy, overcooked vegetables.
It starts with the recipe. You find some “easy” recipe online that’s supposed to take 20 minutes but turns into a three-hour battle. The first ingredient is something you can’t pronounce. “Where do I get kohlrabi? Can I substitute with a potato?” you Google. Reddit gives answers contradictory at best, people fighting in the comments and insulting each other’s mums. But there’s no time to think about that. You don’t have time for a faida over an ingredient. You just need to get this shit done.
And so, as we were saying: the recipe. What an insult to anyone who dares to think they can follow instructions. You start reading, full of optimism, trying to skip the personal bits that authors for some reason insist on sharing on a cooking website, convinced that it’s simply a matter of “throwing in a bit of this, a pinch of that, and voilà!” But by the time you reach instructions like “fold the egg whites gently into the mixture,” your mind has already entered a state of collapse. What does it mean to “fold”? What exactly is the criteria for “gently”? The recipe authors are probably sat in a Michelin-starred restaurant, laughing into their fine wine while you, in your humble kitchen, frantically Google “How to fold egg whites without causing an outbreak of salmonella.”
So you continue, forcing yourself to follow the instructions like some kind of culinary slave. Chop the carrots into matchsticks — but no matter how hard you try, they’re either too thick or too thin, or they look like a toddler’s first attempt at finger painting. The knife you thought was sharp enough is now just a blunt reminder of your shortcomings in life. It doesn’t slice. It tears. It’s not even cutting. It’s just mangling the carrots. You might as well be using a spoon. But you press on, because you’re determined to finish this.
Next, you’ve got to sweat the onions. After five minutes, they’re burnt. Now you’re the one sweating. The air is thick with the smell of regret, which coincidentally smells like the burnt end of a pot that’s going to be a bitch to scrub clean, later. But right now, the oil’s too hot, and now your kitchen looks like the aftermath of a grease fire. Charred bitterness adds depth. You throw the onions in a bowl, pretending you meant to do that. Who’s going to notice, anyway? Who’s even going to care?
Then, it’s time for the protein. Ah, the protein. Everyone’s always talking about protein. But what no one tells you is that chicken is the ultimate test of human willpower. Because you’ve got to cook it just right. Not too dry, but not undercooked. Not something that turns your mouth into a sand-pit, but not something potentially lethal, either. You’ve read a hundred recipes, all telling you different temperatures, in Celsius, Fahrenheit, in Kelvin, in Rankine. Different times. You don’t know if you’re supposed to pan-sear it, grill it, or just throw it in a pot of boiling water and close the lid on it like you just disposed of a live grenade at the last second, until it turns into something that vaguely resembles meat.
You stab it with a thermometer, but you have no idea what temperature is safe. What does 75°C even feel like in your soul? You’re trying to figure it out, but you’re second-guessing yourself. If you undercook it, you’ll get shigella and probably die. If you overcook it, you’ll end up with a piece of cardboard that even the dog wouldn’t touch. And the clock’s ticking—everyone’s starving, everyone’s watching. The pressure’s mounting. You just want to get this over with.
You throw the chicken onto the plate, hoping to salvage some dignity. The vegetables are mush. The rice is glutinous and clumped together like a sad, starchy lump of shame. Your side salad has wilted in the fridge, and the dressing you thought was “gourmet” just tastes like a vinegary nightmare. But God forbid you just order takeout. No. You cooked this. And – admitedly – you also cocked this. But the point is: you put in the effort. Your evening is down the toilet. You have to pretend it’s good.
They sit down at the table. You present it with the enthusiasm of someone who’s trying to cover up the fact they’ve committed a crime. The fork clinks against the plate as they take their first bite. It’s dry. The chicken’s dry. So dry. So dry it could be used as kindling for a fire. But you have to pretend. You have to keep it together. It’s too late now. They take another bite, eyes wide, as if they’re questioning everything in life. “I… I think I need more sauce,” they say, like they’re walking on thin ice. They know. They know it’s awful. You know it’s awful. The dog knows it’s awful. But you all sit there, pretending this is a moment of triumph, as if your failed experiment wasn’t a cry for help. The worst part is you do it again. A week later, you’re back in the kitchen, staring at the same ingredients, convinced that this time, you’ll get it right. The cycle continues. You’ll read more recipes, buy more tools, rack up more takeout bills to “balance out” your attempts at culinary greatness. And you’ll fail. You’ll burn the garlic. You’ll over-salt the soup. You’ll carbonise the bottom of the pot. You’ll accidentally make the mashed potatoes into a slurry of despair. The fire alarm will work overtime. But there’s always next time. Always next time to conquer the stove, to break free from the prison of microwave dinners and takeout boxes. One day, you tell yourself, you’ll create a meal that doesn’t leave you questioning your entire existence. One day, you’ll chop vegetables with the precision of a samurai. One day, you’ll find the perfect chicken recipe that doesn’t taste like a FIAT Uno’s tyre. But today is not that day.
Today, you’ll clean up the kitchen, scrape the burnt bits off the pan, and wonder why you ever thought cooking was anything more than a cruel, pointless charade.
There are few experiences in life as universally terrifying, as deeply existentially unsettling, as the sheer, soul-sucking horror of attempting to leave the sanctity of your bed. The kind of experience that takes you to the very edge of sanity, where you teeter on the precipice of defeat, staring into the yawning chasm of another day, wondering whether it might just be easier to remain motionless for the next 12 hours. Because, let’s face it, the bed has everything: warmth, comfort, a lack of judgement – a sanctuary for the hopelessly lazy. But alas, society insists that you must leave it, to do things like work, eat, or, dare I say, “live”. And so it begins: the battle of wills.
Phase 1: The Negotiation (aka The Denial)
As the alarm blares – an affront to your very existence – you make the decision to cling to the warm cocoon of your duvet as if it were your last shred of human dignity. You know you should get up, but the brain, that feeble organ, insists that a few more minutes of unconsciousness is all it really needs. And so, you lie there, eyes half-open, staring at the ceiling as if you were contemplating the meaning of life. “Just five more minutes,” you whisper to yourself, making a mental note to ignore the fact that the ‘five more minutes’ you asked for twenty minutes ago turned into a full-on siesta.
At this stage, there’s an internal struggle. Your body is telling you that staying in bed is a victory, a triumph against the absurdity of modern life. “Who cares about work?” your body asks, a question that echoes the despair of the human condition. “You could just lie here forever, where it’s warm, where it’s safe, where you don’t have to do anything except exist.” It’s tempting, truly. But then your rational mind kicks in – mostly because it’s been subjected to the alarm’s relentless shrieking. “You’re an adult. You must contribute to society,” it says. Or perhaps it’s more like a cry of desperation: “PLEASE, get up, or we will be unemployed and living in a cave by noon.”
Phase 2: The Physical Assault (aka The Banishment)
And yet, the war is not yet won. Because as much as you attempt to rationalise your situation, your limbs refuse to cooperate. They are heavy, unyielding sacks of inertia, designed by some cruel deity to thwart your every attempt to get out of bed. You try to push yourself up, and immediately your back protests, as though your body is saying, “No, no, no. We had an agreement. You stay here. We lie down forever. This is our destiny.” Your muscles, apparently bereft of any memory of how to stand, groan and screech in rebellion.
You manage to roll over – an impressive feat, really – only to find that gravity is conspiring against you, dragging your body back toward the mattress as if it has its own agenda. At this point, you’re aware of just how humiliating it would be if anyone were to walk in and witness your pathetic, half-formed attempts at rising. The act of getting out of bed is no longer just a simple physical motion – it has become an art form, a tragic comedy unfolding in slow motion.
Phase 3: The Moment of Victory (aka The Reluctant Realisation)
Eventually, you do it. You move. You swing your legs over the side of the bed, feeling the cold air of the room hit your skin like a slap in the face. You stagger to your feet, disoriented, convinced that you are now an entirely different, less functional being. There is no elation at this point – no sense of accomplishment. Just a deep, existential weariness that sinks into your bones, and a nagging thought that perhaps you should’ve just called in sick and become one with the duvet forever.
And as you shuffle towards the bathroom, still blinking against the harsh light of the world, a sobering thought strikes you: you’ve only just started. There’s a whole day ahead of you, filled with things to do, none of which you will truly enjoy. And the thought of crawling back into bed later, where your body and mind can cease pretending to be functional for a few blissful hours, is the only thing that keeps you from contemplating the futility of existence itself.
Phase 4: The Deep, Dark Aftermath (aka The Regret)
Then, just as you’re about to face the grim reality of your day – emails to read, meetings to attend, the long, slow descent into a mundane routine – you feel it. That pang of regret. You were so much happier in the bed. Was this the right choice? Was it worth it? You’ll never know, because by now, it’s too late. You’ve crossed the threshold, and the bed is but a distant memory, mocking you from afar. But tomorrow, oh tomorrow, when the alarm rings, you’ll be ready. You’ll negotiate with it, bargain for another few minutes. And in the end, you’ll lose again.Because let’s be honest – getting out of bed is the hardest thing you’ll do all day.
It’s 6:30 AM. The day stretches ahead of you like a dark, inhospitable road that’s somehow still worth driving down—because you’ve been told that coffee is the fuel that makes that journey not just possible, but potentially productive. You shuffle into the kitchen, eyes bloodshot from the night’s failed attempts at sleep, yet somehow, your body—still operating on the 23rd cup of the previous day’s caffeine intake—has come to the unmistakable conclusion that coffee is the only thing standing between you and your imminent collapse.
You open the cupboard. There it is. The bag of coffee beans—those tiny, roasted morsels of hope, a symbol of a brighter tomorrow, if only you can make it through the next four hours of email replies and deadlines. You grind them. Not because you enjoy the process, but because society has led you to believe that grinding your own beans somehow signals that you’re a person of taste. The sound is maddening. A high-pitched whirring that mimics your over-stimulated brain trying to process the fact that you’re already behind on everything. The beans are crushed—metaphorically and literally—and now it’s time to brew.
As the hot water splashes over the ground coffee, you are filled with a false sense of achievement. The smell that wafts through the kitchen is enough to temporarily fool your tired, jaded mind into thinking you are about to experience something magical. But, as with all things in modern life, it’s a cruel joke. For just a fleeting moment, you believe that your productivity is directly linked to the size of your mug. You pour the coffee, half of it spilling over the edge, and your optimism shrinks. It is barely enough to keep your hands warm, let alone propel you into any meaningful work.
You take the first sip. And for about two seconds, the universe makes sense again. The bitterness washes over you like an existential awakening. This is what life is all about: bitter, futile, and endlessly addictive. Coffee doesn’t just wake you up, it numbs you to the reality of just how hopeless everything feels. For a moment, you feel invincible, but that’s only because your brain is convinced it’s been handed the magic potion that’ll make everything manageable. The rush of caffeine floods your system like the first hit of any drug—it’s short, sharp, and deeply unfulfilling. But it doesn’t matter, because it’s a necessary evil, or, more accurately, a necessary illusion.
You scroll through your phone while the caffeine does its work. There’s a new email from your boss. “Hope you’re having a productive morning!” it says, as if you haven’t been awake for less than 30 minutes and already have the distinct sense of impending doom. You take another sip. The email is followed by another, and another. There are meetings to be attended, spreadsheets to be filled in, and, of course, more coffee to be consumed, because no one has yet figured out how to build a productivity system that doesn’t rely on liquid motivation. After all, you wouldn’t dream of facing the first Zoom call of the day without at least two double espressos in you. That would be as ridiculous as trying to power a car without fuel. It’s not so much the caffeine you’re addicted to, but the idea that it might, just might, bring you closer to the day where you stop running around like a headless chicken and start feeling genuinely accomplished.You glance at the clock. It’s 9:00 AM now. That’s an hour gone, wasted in a haze of brown liquid and half-baked ambition. Coffee, like most things in life, has presented itself as the solution to a problem it created. Your to-do list grows ever longer, your energy is already starting to dip, and you find yourself wondering: Is this it? Will there be more coffee? Will there ever be enough? The truth is, you’re just chasing the high, the rush of being productive, which is the cruelest joke of all. Because you know that no matter how much you drink, there will never be a point where you can look at your day and say, Yes, I’ve truly accomplished something today.
As the morning progresses, the coffee becomes an endless cycle. The first cup—an illusion. The second cup—denial. The third cup—desperation. By the time you get to the fourth, you’re no longer drinking to wake up. You’re drinking to stave off the existential dread that has taken root, convinced that you can push the panic button just a little bit longer, if you keep topping up. And so, it continues—another day, another coffee, another set of promises you’ll never keep.And just as the day ends, you’ll be back at it again tomorrow. Because coffee doesn’t let you stop. It simply makes you believe you’ve started. And that’s enough. For now.
Ah, housework. It’s the unwelcome guest at the party that is our daily existence — a guest who refuses to leave, despite our polite, increasingly desperate, attempts to show them the door. You know the one. The person who arrived under the guise of “I’ll just pop in for a quick drink,” but, five hours later, is still sitting on the couch, blabbering about their garden renovation plans while you passively (and very nearly imperceptibly) edge towards the door.
I’m sure I’m not alone when I say that there exists a mysterious, nebulous thing called “cleaning,” a force that looms in the background of one’s existence, like a rogue planet. It orbits your life, ominous and ever-present, occasionally pulling you into its gravitational field with alarming, irresistible force. Some days, it’s dusting. Other days, it’s mopping. And let’s not even speak of the laundry — a task so multifaceted, so long-winded, it could be a novella if it were a bit more coherent and less riddled with wrinkles.
There’s a particularly charming irony in the way cleaning works. You finish one job, proud of your accomplishment, only to look around and realize that, rather than having removed the grime from the universe entirely, you’ve merely nudged it along to a new location. You vacuum, and suddenly it seems as though a thousand more crumbs have been unleashed in your wake. Where were these crumbs five minutes ago? Were they waiting in ambush, biding their time under the furniture, waiting for you to make that brave, half-hearted attempt at domesticity? The truth is, housework is like a Sisyphean task, but less poetic and more domestic. In Greek mythology, Sisyphus was condemned to roll a boulder uphill for all eternity, only to watch it tumble back down again. This, surely, is the destiny of anyone who tackles the laundry pile. Or the dishes. You wash the dishes, and the next thing you know, you find four used mugs dotted around the house. Before you know it, you’re in a situation not entirely dissimilar to those eternal looping train rides that never seem to end, the same track, the same repetitive clankclankclank of reality.At times, I find myself questioning the point of cleaning. I mean, why do I keep vacuuming the same rug? It’s not as though the rug is going to become a person and return the favor with a bit of light housework. No, that would be absurd. If rugs could clean, they’d probably spend their days getting underfoot and critiquing your cleaning methods. “You’ve missed a spot, you know. I’m just saying.”
But then there’s the other side of housework — the one that’s more sinister. The “all-consuming” side. You start with a simple task, like scrubbing the bathroom sink, and before you know it, you’re elbows deep in the fridge, debating whether those olives are still edible or whether they have transformed into a sentient penicillin colony. And yet, there’s a certain satisfaction to this madness, isn’t there? The feeling that, for a fleeting moment, the world has been put to rights. The tiles have gleamed, the laundry is folded, and perhaps, just perhaps, the dust has temporarily been vanquished.
Then you sit down on the couch, feel a deep sense of pride, and are promptly greeted by a mountain of paperwork you could have sorted out last week but opted not to. The cycle begins again. So we carry on, don’t we? Every now and then, perhaps with a sigh of resignation, perhaps with a brief and fleeting moment of joy, we continue to tidy up, knowing that the broom will forever chase us through the house like an obedient, if slightly overzealous, dog. And yet, in our hearts, we know we’ll never truly win this battle. We can only delay the inevitable, and even then, only for a very short time. Such is life. Such is housework. And such is the human condition.
Cantankerous Cockerel 