And the seagull’s name was…

I think my wife is descended from a seagull. I believe this, because she exhibits certain seagull-like behaviour (No, she doesn’t make screeching noises and she doesn’t hang out at the harbour – at least, not as much as before). The specific characteristic that springs to mind is that – metaphorically speaking – she cannot resist crapping on a freshly washed car. Yes, it would be far more interesting if I meant it literally, but please note: I said metaphorically.

You see, whenever I have concluded any domestic cleaning activity, such as vacuuming or washing the kitchen floor, my dear spouse is somehow drawn to the freshly cleaned space by some kind of uncanny radar. She then proceeds to dribble hot liquids, smear sticky things or leave trails of crumbs – whatever seems most appropriate to the fouling of the surface in question.

Cleared spaces do not stay cleared for long, but rapidly fill up with newspapers, shopping bags, books, toys, cards, mugs, plates, underwear, food, miscellaneous bits of garden vegetation, shoes, clothing and things I would prefer not to identify. It’s almost as if she has a severe form of agoraphobia and can’t bear to look at wide open spaces, such as dining room tabletops. She is only content once the place resembles the town dump. Once again, I believe this is the racial memory of the noble seagull coming to the fore.

Of course, if she’s busy reading or otherwise occupied, she sends the sprog in her place to do the necessary. Kyknoord Jr appears to have inherited an impressive number of seagull genes, too.