I’ve decided that working in the dishroom is a lot like being in the Matrix. I know there’s something wrong, I can feel it. Every cup that doesn’t quite obey the laws of gravity is a sign, a sign of a mystery far more profound than the content of yesterday’s meatloaf…

Then there’s the fact that I’ve acquired the ability to empty trays with almost superhuman speed. Soon I will become one with the washing machine, and the dirty dishes will melt before me. As I sort cutlery with blazing speed I will but remind myself that “there is no spoon (or fork, or knife),” and the very implements themselves will come to my aid.

All I need now are some stylish sunglasses and a few blatant messianic symbols and I will truly have transcended the humdrum of this world.

I expect a mysterious cell-phone call any day now…