And this is where this story is set, in New York City. It’s a bittersweet town for me, after all this is the birthplace and inevitable killing zone of Law & Order – no one called a Grand Jury on that decision and as such I call ‘worst bullshit cancelling in the history of ever’ – yes, worse than the Wonder Years and that short lived law series with Moira Tierney and Rob Morrow which was EXCELLENT!

I was walking through Central Park with my friends Mark and Sam, minding our own business when suddenly a small child flew off his bicycle in front of us. It took Mark a moment to get to him as we waited for the all the other cyclists and pedestrians who were closer to the accident to just walk or ride around him. By the time Mark got to  him and helped moved him out the way his mother had ridden up and as any mother should she started consoling her boy who had managed to escape with not even a scratch, but it didn’t stop him from whinging to his mother that he never wanted to ride his bike in the first place and yes, bikes are stupid.

My friend Sam and I watched from a distance. To anyone else we probably looked like two Hispanic nannies neglecting the white babies of the Upper Eastside elite.

‘If anyone asks’ I told Sam ‘we tell em we sold em, sold their little white babies.’

‘Man’ said Sam ‘I wish I’d filmed that on my phone.’

‘That’s what monsters do.’  I told her.

‘God, Lou it’s not like the kid was shot. He fell off his bike. If anything if he had died at least we’d have some footage you know for insurance and stuff.’

I watched as Mark started to drag the bikes of the mother and the son one by one to the side of the park and that’s when I noticed…

‘You know who that is?’ I teased Sam ‘It’s the actress from Will & Grace; you know the one that isn’t Karen.’

Sam took a closer look with the zoom feature on her phone.

‘So it is’ she breathed in ‘it’s the other one.’

Oddly enough only hours before Mark and I had engaged in an exhaustive 15 minute diatribe about how much we hated ‘Will & Grace’. As Mark was gay this was clearly a confronting conversation that needed to be had. I think we had both settled on the uncomfortable truth that ‘Will & Grace’ was really just ‘Ned and Stacey’ except that people knew what ‘Will & Grace’ was.

Tired, Mark put the final bike down next to our feet and we waited patiently as the mother escorted her still whinging trust fund child back to the curb.

Now in most developed countries and I’d argue most countries where humans live, I guess the normal thing to do would be to, as a mother, thank the man who stepped out into oncoming traffic and pulled her son to the side of the road out of harm’s way and then went back and got both bikes, but as were in the US there was a strong chance this wasn’t going to happen and so that’s when things got awkward.

The actress from Will & Grace continued to ignore Mark as he hovered nearby, the English gentlemen in him having trouble coming to grips with the fact he was being completely ignored and would not be receiving the most simple of a thank-you. Fuck, a coin being placed patronizingly in the palm of his hand with instructions to go and by himself the Hispanic cleaners standing next to him some sweets wouldn’t have been nearly as offensive at this moment.

Now granted, if the kid was injured and being tumbled into an ambulance I think we’d all settle on a compassionately raised eye-brow enough of a thank-you, but he was fine, my friend was exhausted from helping out and you know what, fuck all the excuse making, it would just be the polite fucking thing to do ‘Ms Not Karen from Will & Grace.’

I finally couldn’t stand it anymore and let the bikes drop to the ground. And that was when we got her attention.

‘Come on’ I said ‘Let’s go, she’s not going to say thanks to you Mark because she  thinks she’s on TV.’

And that was the truth, there was something in her eyes that said ‘Yep, you know who I am and so you’re going to get all fan obsessed and I shouldn’t have to thank you from saving my child, I’m on TV.’ To which my eyes said something back like ‘yeah and your last show was cancelled and you’re wearing a bum bag and people with bum bags can’t afford to not say thank you to the man who saved your kid from being run over.’

After that Mark and I found ourselves having a cocktail somewhere as we normally did after 10am on a weekday. We settled into a hotel bar in the Meat Packing district and started to while away our day and bitch about said television star.

‘Karen wouldn’t have done that’ I told Mark.

 ‘Of course not. In fact if it had been Karen we’d be having these cocktails with her right now.’

‘Yes and her husband Nick Offerman.’

‘Karen’s amazing.’

‘Yes, yes she is.’

When it was time to head home to drink more wine I stopped into the bathroom. It was one of those set ups with 10 sinks and only one toilet.

As the toilet door didn’t have an engaged sign I opened it expecting to find an unoccupied toilet. How wrong I was.

‘Get out!’ screamed a fully clothed, pants zipped up and all woman of about my age standing next to the toilet.

‘Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t realise, the door wasn’t locked you see’… I mumbled my way to shutting the door. “I’m sorry but the door was open.’

I waited outside the toilet and tried to distract myself from what was not going on inside. She hadn’t locked the door, it was still clearly unlocked and from what I could tell she was just standing in there.

‘Are you ok?’ I called out ‘Do you need me to get you some help or something’? Maybe she was from a squatting country and confused. I was trying to help.

Finally the door flung open and the women ran to the sink to wash her hands, probably from the all the over top of her clothes masturbation she’d been up to.

‘I can’t believe you just walked in on me’ she ranted ‘I mean I was in there.’

‘Yes, I said, but in my defence the door was unlocked – ‘

‘Is that how you go to the toilet in Sydney?’ she accused me.

‘Ok, Australia isn’t just Sydney, but yes, we go to the bathroom by opening unlocked doors.’

Clearly distressed she ran the water over her hands for far too long and yet for whatever reason I still couldn’t compel myself to go to the toilet.

‘It’s just so rude’ she continued ‘I mean not to even be able to go to the bathroom without some Australian girl just walking in.’

‘You left the door unlocked’ I mumbled back wondering if what had really happened was I’d stumbled across her attempt to cruise women in bathrooms stalls.

Suddenly an older looking version of the women walked into the bathroom.

‘Is everything ok? She asked the irrational toilet woman ‘you’ve been gone and awfully long time.’

‘This Australian woman just walked in on me in the bathroom!’

‘I did not, well not really, she left the door unlocked. I just opened the door and it’s not she was doing anything, she was just standing there, fully clothed.’

‘Fully clothed?’ Asked the women who I was pretty sure was her legal guardian.

‘Pants up I mean’.

‘You did it again? She turned to her daughter who hid her head away.

Ok, so this was clearly a thing.

‘So you left the door opened on purpose?!’

‘No, you walked in on me.’

Her mother turned to me ‘really, you Australian’s are so rude.’

‘But I didn’t do anything wrong’ I yelled back. ‘Clearly your daughter has a thing for baiting women into bathrooms.’

‘How dare you!’ Her mother spat at me ‘it pains me to say to it, but the truth is the last good Australian died the day Steve Irwin died.’

And with that she bundled up her daughter and left the bathroom.

Unable to pee anymore I left the bathroom shortly after. Mark was waiting for me.

‘You took long enough’ he moaned ‘is it a vagina thing?’

‘Well yes’ I said ‘you could definitely say it was cunt related.’

I read an article in The Age recently, because yes, the newsagency had sold out of Grazia – BAM! No, I was really reading The Age and no it wasn’t something I’d already read a week earlier on the Guardian Newspaper website and then was re-reading syndicated as ‘our’ news in ‘our’ newspaper, no this was proper Australian news, an entire article devoted to the ‘perish the thought’ idea that Australian women are more likely to list their ‘absolutely cannot live without beauty treatment’ as spray tanning over leg waxing, like I said my brain is actually perishing at the thought. I mean imagine the site of it, furry tangerine coloured women wondering around, freely and clearly without a thought for prioritisation. Personally, as a person of ethnic extraction I celebrate this coming together of colour and leg hair. Viva la revolution!

Earlier this year I was asked by UN Women (calm down, the Melbourne branch) to go into high schools and talk to you young women  and inspire them, well I was there to talk at them, a presenter from Getaway was there to inspire them. At the end of the session a young Greek girl raised her hand to ask a question and when it became clear this wasn’t a question about Getaway it was directed at me. It was a question asking why girls like myself weren’t ever seen on Australian TV, well not in things that weren’t Fat Pizza, well look not on any other channel other than SBS and to be fair, SBS 2. I jokingly remarked that years ago when I was first starting out in television in Australia an exec at one of our ‘ethnic orientated television stations’ actually told me I wasn’t ethnic enough for them, a sentiment re-iterated to me again earlier this year by the same station. I hadn’t conceded defeat though I told the young girl, cause well given my tanned olive skin I was hoping to score an audition for Home & Away. As the polite laughter died down another girl raised her hand ‘but wog olive skin isn’t the same as real olive skin is it?’  And then she motioned to the spray tanned glossed veneer of the presenter from Getaway ‘I mean that’s real olive skin nowadays isn’t it?’ And before I could object every girl in the room nodded in agreement.

It’s not the first time I’d been told the colour of my skin wasn’t what people considered ‘real olive’ nowadays. When I was in my 20’s I moved to the UK where lovers of the fake tan, muffin tops and chubby Page 4 blonde lived in harmony together. Given I didn’t have a muffin top or a desire to get my ‘knockers’ out for a lads mag I thought I was safe from this orange goo seeping into my life, but my Gordie housemates had something else in mind. Every Saturday morning after a night on ‘the pull’ my housemates would waft into the kitchen smelling of skin varnish and draped in sarongs to stave off streaking. A bottle of turps was always kept within grabbing distance in case of any furniture smudging. For the most part they left me alone, after all I didn’t even dye my hair, some people were such as myself were clearly beyond help, well that was until one day when I was ambushed while watching a re-run of Big Brother Up Late, my only witness Russel Brand talking to me from the TV as my arms were held down and  I was slathered in fake-tan because and I quote ‘we just really wanted to see if it would work on your skin’.

Of course amongst all those that don’t think my skin can actually be called olive and tanned these days because it doesn’t come with instructions to prevent streaking there are some purists like Tom, a guy I’d worked with at a music festival a couple of years back. We ran into each other again at a friend’s BBQ in the chilly winter Melbourne months when he saddled up next me and asked if I’d like a sip of his white wine and yes it was a euphemism. When I told him I was allergic to semen the conversation moved on…

‘You should keep that tan Lou, it suits you, how’d you get it?’ He hovered close enough so that I knew his body was covered in a combination of Lynx and skin.

‘It’s natural, I have olive skin.’ I replied navigating the hummus that only seemed attainable if my hand were to brush his against his person. I decided against using any dip with my bread.

‘You know Lou I’ve never touched olive skin before.’

The air vomited around us both…

‘It’s the same as any other skin.’

‘I doubt it Lou, here touch mine.’

He held out his arm…

‘Or if you’d prefer’ he began to mime unzipping his trousers as I turned away and silently began to cry – I really wanted that hummus, this bread was nothing without it.

‘Can I touch your skin?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘If I bought you a drink maybe you’d let me touch it then?’

‘ Can we please stop talking about touching skin?’ I watched as the last of the hummus was devoured by someone who didn’t have to push past Tom’s penis to get it.

‘You’re a feisty girl aren’t you Lou…I like feisty girls, feisty Spanish girls, maybe you and I can get together one night and make paella together.’

‘I’d prefer it if you just fucked off.’ To be honest he was bearing the brunt of my frustration over my lack of hummus.

‘Ok Lou, no need to be a cunt about it. It’s all good. Anyway, if I’m honest I prefer dark skinned blonde girls; at least they care enough to pay for their tan.’

A few weeks after that encounter I was on a tram when a young woman approached me interested in where I went to get my skin done. I didn’t bother even explaining it was my natural tan, all I said was ‘make sure you ask your spray tanner for the colour that existed before orange became the new olive.’

THE END.

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‘I’m reclaiming the word’ she informed me as I sat down opposite her in my denim-on-denim ensemble.

‘Yeah, I gathered as much’ I bemoaned partially because I knew where this conversation was headed and in no small part because the cafe she’d insisted on meeting at didn’t do soy milk.

‘It’s fine’ she said ‘I don’t know why it’s such an issue for you. Just get skim milk. Same, same Lou.’

This is why I needed a boyfriend, not for any other reason than to avoid these type of catch-ups. I imagined friends of old calling me up wanting to meet for a dairy laden latte and I’d be all ‘oh I’m sorry, I’d love to but I have a boyfriend and he has a penis I need to attend to…yeah, I know, it is a shame, but what you gonna do?’

‘You’re a slut Lou! I’m a slut Lou! We’re all sluts! Isn’t that great?!’

I looked at my tea delivered with nothing but a lemon wedge to mask its tea-like flavour.

‘I’m not a slut.’ I said as I eyed a woman leaving the Vegie Bar with a take-away coffee which I was certain was a soy coffee, probably a flat white by the looks of it; after all, we had the same shoes.

‘But of course you are’ my friend interjecting my hypothesis.

‘You’re a woman and you have sex, ipso facto you’re a slut Lou.’ I watched as she slammed her fork into her crumbling tower of cheesecake and I enjoyed the last bits of my lemon wedge.

‘The fact we have sex didn’t make us sluts, an ingrained misogyny in the lexicon did.’

My biscotto wasn’t hitting the spot but then again biscotti never did and yet each time I was still surprised by my little realisation.

‘No Lou you’re using traditional definitions. It doesn’t just have to be a woman who has multiple sexual partners at any one time Lou; it can also be applied to woman who just has sex in the winter in lieu of escalating electricity bills such as-‘

‘-so help me god do not even finish that sentence.’ I commanded, discreetly rubbing my new hot water bottle I’d only bought hours earlier in my bag; the only rubber in anyone’s life certain to stave off winter madness and combat escalating electricity bills.

Annoyed and scratching at her Henna tattoo from a hens night past she turned on me ‘I just don’t see what you’re problem is. Everyone’s talking about it! Come on Lou, Slut Walk – it’s what this is all about!’

‘You want the truth as unpopular as it maybe I just don’t believe in the word slut. There shouldn’t be such a word. It’s always been a bad word with bad connotations. You can’t reclaim a word created to be negative. I’ll concede that perhaps you can rehabilitate it – ‘

‘-Amy Winehouse was rehabilitated.’

‘Yeah, and it’s worked to startling affect hasn’t it?’

‘-What about cunt? That was reclaimed and it’s the same as sluts.’

‘What? That in a lot of ‘sluts’ have cunts?’

‘That’s a very simplified way of looking at things Lou but yes most ‘sluts’ do own a cunt but also that the word was reclaimed.’

‘If you want to get in a tit for tat about the word cunt – ‘

‘Ha! You said tit!’ squeeling like a school girl.

‘I also said tat but where’s its credit…’ I mumbled as waitress quietly put the bill down on our table.

‘Did you enjoy your lemon?’ she asked

‘Yes, yes I did. Thank you very much.’ She smiled as she took the lemon wedge and empty tea cup away.

‘Well someone’s got a cunt and that someone definitely likes a girl who enjoys a good lemon wedge…’ my friend languished back in her chair.

‘Shut it’ I said as I hunted around in my hand bag for my strawberry lipgloss.

‘I reckon you could slut it up with her good time.’

‘You’re using it as a verb now?’

‘When in Rome…’

‘That in no way applies to this discussion. We are not in a situation that warrants a deflection to the hedonistic times of ancient Rome.’

‘We are in Brunswick St…’

Neither of us said anything. Not a week earlier I’d been somewhat hedonistic just off Brunswick St…my friend didn’t need any more wins.

‘What I was getting at is that cunt is a word imbued with positive connotations until it was reappropriated for another means. A negative, oppressive means, but over time and with limited success I might add it’s started to live in a more positive light in the lexicon.’

‘So it’s kinda like the Rob Lowe of words?’

‘No, a woman’s vagina is nothing like Rob Lowe.’

‘But he was a good guy and then he shagged and filmed an underage girl and then bam! He’s on the West Wing!’

‘Ok the likelyhood of ever seeing a cunt on television over Rob Lowe…’

‘You’re missing my point Lou. I’ m just saying that women should be allowed to be sluts!’

‘How about women just being allowed to be women? You know to dress how they like as a woman, say what they like as a woman, live like they want as a woman and not be concerned with the ever present threat of being sexually assaulted or shamed? I’m just saying that seems like a better use of our energy as opposed to rebranding a word already fraught with problems.’

‘That wouldn’t fit on a t-shirt Lou.’

‘What?’

‘Your feminist rhetoric needs to fit on a t-shirt.’

Sadly she was right…

‘So for the walk what will your t-shirt read?’

‘Oh I’m not wearing a t-shirt, I’m just going to write slut across my breasts.’

‘Ok, fair enough. I guess I’ll just walk next to you.’

SlutWalk is happening on Saturday 28th May at 1pm, State Library and contrary to popular belief I believe it’s about how women should have the freedom to wear, say and live as they please without the threat of sexual violence and shaming. It is not about reclaiming the word; it is about taking away its meaning so that arseholes can’t use it to hurt us ever again.

‘It’s horrible, like I know he’s not right now cause he’s making me a smoothie but when he asked if I wanted avocado I just thought of my god that’s her vagina and him making me the smoothie well that’s just him metaphorically f**king her.’

‘With the avocado?’

‘No, she is the avocado. Don’t you see?’

‘He’s not going to cheat on you with an avocado, there’s not enough room’ I mumbled as I rolled onto my side and was greeted with my flashing clock and the reminder it was 3am – clearly finest advice given hour.

‘It’s my own fault you know, I hired her for this campaign and she’s his ‘free walk around the park.’ Oh my god, I’m Jennifer Aniston. I can literally feel the pity of others dripping off me.’

‘Not that this is important, but you do know it’s free to walk around a park?’

‘Not in LA Lou.’

‘Since when?’

‘9/11 Lou.’

My pillow fell on my face but to my shock and horror I was still able to breathe…f**k I can’t even muffle myself properly at this hour…

‘So what she’s his ‘if I could cheat on you it would be with her’?! Everyone knows they’re just the thing of fiction, something couples do to add meaning to a relationship.’

‘You so know this is how it started with Brad and Angelina.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘Him and Jen were just kicking back at their house in Malibu and Jen’s all like she’d so go Captain Picard – ‘

‘-Captain Picard, from Star Trek?’

‘- yes Lou, he’s very commanding and anyway I thought you liked bald?’

‘I’ve done bald, but it never set a precedent.’

‘That’s a shame; I think you and the Captain would work well together.’

‘He’s not real’

‘Those things from your past you’ve called relationships aren’t what we’d call real either but let’s not split hairs, I was talking about Jen and Brad.’

‘Yes, back to those close friends of ours.’

‘Don’t get sarky.’

‘I’m tired.’

‘And so am I Lou, from this constant fight to keep my man.’ 

My pillow smelled nice, I could feel my oxygen levels running low…

‘Fine, continue.’

‘Well they were just hanging and she’s like her night on the town would be Captain Picard and Brad laughs and knocks back some carb-free popcorn and Jen tickles him until he admits he’d so go Lara Croft from Tomb Raider and then they both laugh cause they know they’ll never cheat on each other cause their cheats are fictional characters and then Jen’s like ‘hey Brad, we just got this script, it’s called Mr & Mrs Smith I’m thinking of producing it post Friends and then BOOM he’s suddenly adopting Asians.’

I hung up, still alive.

Now a few years back when I was living in London I’d had this same conversation with my then boyfriend who at every turn made it very clear he was never out to impress me.

‘Any page 3 girl’ he said. ‘You know just for something different.’

‘Different how?’ I asked

‘You know naked with boobs.’

‘Oh as opposed to myself?’

‘Well I can see you naked any time I want so it doesn’t count.’

‘I can guarantee you from this point on you will not be able to see me naked anytime you want.’

‘You going all frigid or something?’

‘Yes, that’s it. I’m going all frigid or something.’

The conversation had been prompted when my ‘night off’ guy had moved into the same street as us, Matt Day, previously of A Country Practice…ok, so it had been a long time between long term relationships and I hadn’t gotten around to updating my list. It happens to the best of us.

‘You have to change your guy’ my boyfriend stated.

‘Why?’

‘Cause he now lives next door.’

‘And?’

‘You’re more inclined to have sex with him if the he’s next door. It’s a presented opportunity now.’

 ‘I don’t want to have sex with him.’

‘It doesn’t matter if you do or you don’t.’

‘I think you’ll find it does both legally and human rights wise’

He closed his copy of the Mirror, Sandra from Cheshire’s breasts saw the light of day no more…

‘No. You see if we’re together forever then he’s your only way out, whereas I get page 3 ladies and Julie Sawahla but only from her Press Gang days, you’ve should’ve given yourself more options.’

‘So you’re saying I either sleep with Matt Day, cause that’s bound to happen at some point when he walks past our flat with his baby and wife, or never sleep with anyone but you ever again?’

‘Yes. It’s really a concept that doesn’t involve that much thought Lou.’

‘There’s a lot things in this room at the moment that don’t require much thought…’

We’re not together anymore. 15 years on (yes, it was that long ago I made him my ‘get out of jail free card’) and Matt Day is still a hottie, but as my relationship ended and I matured with age I was very aware of the severe limitations I’d placed on myself with only one option, now I have more, starting with Ron Weasley and ending with Shaun Micallef (yeah, I just haven’t made my career more awkward). That is why there is now a chair on my front porch, just in case they move in down the street.

My housemate said nothing as I dragged my latest find into our house.

After a moment the tension got too much.

‘Do you really think we need more bassinets in the house, you know given you don’t have an actual baby?’

‘You say that like I’ve got a hidden stash of bassinets hidden under my bed, like some sort of crazy baby lady.’

We both said nothing.

‘So where did you get it?’

‘Just found it on the side of the road, can you believe someone actually wanted to throw this out?’

‘Yes I can’ my flatmate remarked, gesturing at the bassinet handle that had broken off in my hand.

‘You haven’t been walking around pretending there’s a baby in there have you?’

I said nothing but knew my silent stance would betray me.

‘Again Lou? Really?’

‘Well look don’t panic I bought something from an actual shop as well.’

I stepped aside to reveal a large portrait of the Swiss Alps.

‘Oh good god.’ My housemate mumbled.

‘It’s even mounted on chip board so we can stick pins in it.’

‘Why would we stick pins in it?’

‘Cause on occasion everyone gets an urge to stick a pin in something, it’s just human nature.’

He glared at me and for a moment I couldn’t help but feel like a pin cushion…

‘It’ll be great, every time someone walks down the corridor they’ll be reminded of the Alps and it was only $6 at Savers.’

‘That’s where you bought it? Savers?’

‘Yeah, you’d have to pay like at least $30 bucks for a Swiss Alps pin board anywhere else. I’m not a fool, especially when it comes to art.’

Later that afternoon as I sat in  my lounge room looking at my latest find I found myself making a list of the things I could do with my aforementioned bassinet:

1. Do something with it involving cheese. Thinking some sort of fondue party…
2. Buy small plastic babies, fill bassinet with small plastic babies and then leave on porch. Maybe scatter some other plastic babies around it for effect with a trail of plastic babies leading out onto the street. Watch from my office to see if anyone really cares about abandoned little plastic babies.
3. Have a baby and then make the bassinet not only a great find but also functional.
4. Make into a herb garden and then write about it in Frankie…that is if they ever return my phone calls…(Reminder to self – CALL FRANKIE)
5. Attach some invisible string to it and then when my housemate is working with his door open drag past in manner of haunted bassinet, whispering something like ‘I’m the ghost of the baby you never knew you might have had.’
6. Don’t do anything with bassinet. Just leave the bassinet alone or better yet, throw it out. STUPID IDEA.

 As night came around I informed my housemate that I would be turning my bassinet into a herb garden, after all I’m adult. He seemed satisfied with the idea. I then wished him a good evening and set about trying to find where I’d misplaced my invisible string.

‘They’ve probably expired.’ I told him ‘or been cancelled by someone who rang the cinema to see if anyone had bothered using them.’

‘I guess it’s the thought that counts. Thanks all the same.’

‘Well we can’t all just show up umbilical cord at the ready, some of us like to put more thought into our presents.’

Last Christmas was no different. Whereas my brother got my parents the gift of him getting engaged, I presented my parents with the gift of a nail file, Michael Chugg’s autobiography, oh and news that my ex-boyfriend was moving into my house after a 5 year estrangement.

In my defence my ex was sleeping in another room, on the ground, but as friends were all too quick to point out ‘how does that differ from last time Lou?’…well played ‘friends’.

So whereas my brother was looking to the future, I’d pretty much stumbled across an old garbage bag of clothes destined for St Vinnie’s, opened it up and gone ‘oh there’s that dress I really like, why don’t I wear it anymore? I should so wear it more; like all the time…oh that’s why I don’t wear it …it has an elasticised waist, but hang on I’ve lost weight so it’ll probably look great…no, it has an elasticised waist, why on earth did I just not burn this dress! Why am I giving it to someone else? No one looks good in an elasticised waist, even the poor! Oh for the love of god, why did I even buy it?…is my life just a landscape of regret littered with mistakes?’

We got on fine. For the most part until he started washing my dishes.

‘Really there’s no need to do the dishes.’

‘But I should, I’m a guest.’

‘I’d really rather you didn’t.’

‘They’re just dishes.’

‘No they’re not just dishes.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘It’s too much like a relationship if I let you wash my dishes.’

‘Is this about the fact I don’t wash your dishes anymore?’

‘I’m just saying I’ve gone 5 years without you washing my dishes and I really don’t think it’s a good idea if you start washing them now.’

‘We’re not talking about dishes now are we…?’

He moved out a week later.