“I say, Holmes,” I said to my good friend Mister Sherlock Holmes one rainy winter evening. “Isn’t it remarkable how the sun never actually sets and yet it does set, every night.”
“Not at all,” replied that astute observer of all things everywhere. “It’s not in the least remarkable, which makes me wonder why indeed you bothered to remark upon it at all. What is truly remarkable, however, is that damnable woman!”
“A woman you say?” I pricked up my ears, for whenever Holmes mentioned a woman, it usually meant THAT woman.
“The new cleaning lady,” he continued, biting down hard upon his pipe. “Every time she comes she opens up all the kitchen cupboards and never closes a single one. I find myself continually banging my noggin upon those dratted cupboard doors. I have half a mind to show HER the door and let it hit her where the good lord split her.”
“It is what it is,” I replied. “But considering we hardly pay the poor creature, it’s a wonder she ever returns at all.”
“We pay fair market wages,” Holmes scoffed. “If she wants more than a penny a week she should damn well ask for it. But what bothers me is why. Why won’t she close a single cupboard door? There’s something afoot, I fear. Some fiendish plot, I swear.”
“Maybe she likes messing with your head,” I grumbled softly so as not to disturb my dear friend, who was by now knee deep in one of his precocious studies, keenly perusing his unique collection of moth-wing dust.
“And she leaves the tea bags on the sink,” he growled, now becoming increasingly incensed. “What kind of foul vagabond leaves their bloody tea bags on the sink! It’s enough to drive a man to drugs.”
“As if you needed an excuse,” I said. “But there you have it. I shall call this one The Case of the Bloody Tea Bag. People will love it. I can shove any old crap at them as long as it has your name on it.”