Death by butter-knife

I am sure everyone knows the morbidly fascinating fact that you are more likely to be murdered by someone you know.

And when I first heard this, my knee-jerk reaction was to consider who would’ve or is currently contemplating terminating my life, as we know it. Lucky for me this list of candidates is short.

But now I found myself feeling that the shoe is on the other foot. I shouldn’t be worrying about my own death, I should be concerned about the murder I am likely to commit should my flat mate’s mother stay another day in my house.

Ironically, I am the prisoner in my own house. Thankfully my cell has a comfy bed, wireless Internet connection and occasional conjugal visits.

However, it must be said that rehabilitation is far from sight. This eighty-year-old woman is testing the limits of any human’s tolerance. It is physical and mental boundaries that she likes to push.

Would you like to know of recent torture methods she’s tested me on? Hours of Frasier and food channel footage, mind-numbing conversations over one exclusive topic – the wonders of her backward Australian town, constant tutting over anything ‘unlady-like’ – this can include short skirts, drinking, smoking and a non-Aryan boyfriend.

Yes, you too would be reaching for the butter-knife. Why would this be my implement of choice?

Because I can’t tell you how many nights I have had my own basic need to eat hijacked for the lard-fest she cooks to present to her doting daughter. Followed by, like a bitter after-dinner mint, an in-depth analysis between the two of them on their culinary success.

I know this is a very un-like me. It is a rant. And this blog was never the vehicle for this uncensored emotional release.

But what are my alternatives? Maybe the job would be easier done with a steak knife?