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orchid as an ashtray and the ashtray for cookies. Milk seeped from an overturned jug on the settee.

It all seemed surreal as Morty glared balefully.

He felt an urgent need to go to the toilet, turned his back on everything and put out the lights.

The following morning he awoke to the buzzing of flies. Over night an army of soldier ants had moved in. Cockroaches darted hither and thither and Morty fancied he had seen a rat.

Life became a veritable nightmare. He would potter ineffectually in the kitchen, wiping this, rinsing that and dabbing at something else. Far from remedying the situation, he seemed to add to the chaos.

Domestic disarray was the order of the day.

At work Morty was silent. Colleagues thought he was missing Anemone. For him it was the added loss of his freedom. He became evermore steeped in a never-ending litany of housekeeping, slave to domestic chores and engrossed in exterminating the very insects he unwittingly nurtured.

A week later, Minerva paid him a visit. As she eyed Morty's mess, her penciled eyebrow shot up. In that exact instant all romantic notions waned.

One evening, Evania put her head around the door. She left shortly thereafter clutching her nose between her thumb and forefinger:

"Oh, what a nasty odor!"

Angela, too, visited early one morning. She pretended not to see the dishevelment but made a vigorous mental note to discuss it with Charles, her husband, that very evening.

Even Peter, a work colleague, paid a visit. Later that evening he told his mother about Morty's housekeeping. This matriarch, a self-styled local bugle, spent a happy hour making various breathless phone calls throughout the town.

News of Morty's distress spread. Soon the townsfolk were stopping Morty. Instead of commiserating they would ask instead:

"How are things at home, Morty?"

He would reply:

"Fine, thank you."

He would sigh, wishing that it had been he who had been called to heaven instead of Anemone. It occurred to him that as cleanliness was next to godliness', he was hardly a candidate.

When he was stressed, Morty needed the toilet. It was so bad that he needed it constantly but, shall we say, not copiously.

Just as he was at his worst, it happened.

Arriving home at the end of a day, he gasped as he entered.

His house was neat and clean and smelling sweet. It was nothing short of a miracle.

Perhaps he was dreaming? He pinched himself. No, it was real.

On the kitchen cooker laid a tray of newly baked muffins. Their aroma made him salivate.

Gently, he tip toed around

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