Variation on an Enigma

Or something.... I was all fired up for a bit of housework this afternoon. I swept up the detritus of our lives that has accumulated indoors over the last few days and put it into a black sack with the usual rubbish. I put the newspapers together for the paper recycling collection, I put the glass together for the glass recycling collection... and I got told off.

Those (yes, elegant) cider bottles "I'm keeping" because the Fat Bastard has a Dream... he wants to go into business making ******, and he's going to put the ****** into those bottles (presumably washed first) and sell it thus to the general public.

Never mind the how, and when and where of the production, the necessity for a certain level of hygiene (so far an alien concept to him based on all the evidence he's offered). It's the overall when of this that really is getting on my tits. I've got jars and racks in the garden, baskets in the under-sink cupboard, labels and plastic bags in the lounge (not food-grade, you should understand) and more bottles somewhere out of sight [where has he put them?]. Now I've got used cider bottles that I'm not allowed to throw out.

When I'm shot of this fucker I'm shot of everthing. I'll make a calculation down to the nearest knicker, bra, sock, piece of paper, knife, fork, plate, glass, cup, mug, bowl and so forth and so on and the rest is the property of the first person to turn up and make a claim. Anything we can live without we will leave behind.