What did your last slave die of?

One of my husband's sayings that I hear especially on his days off when I give him a few jobs to do.

Now everytime my dad shouts for me, I hear that in my head. This morning, he needed to change his pants and as he is still a bit shy around his new carer, he wanted to do it before she arrived. I gave him the new pants and scuttled out of his room. I actually went upstairs to start listening to my meditations. Well, that was a mistake.

I soon heard the raspy, shouty, irate, ominous call beckoning me from downstairs. I always try to take a minute for a deep breath now before answering or going to him. That minute was too long for him to handle in his minute of desperate need. I replied that I would come.

Within seconds, there it was again, even more angry and obviously spat out through gritted teeth. Thank goodness I could not see his face as I would have had a severe visceral reaction. I replied, louder this time, that I was on my way.

I arrived, knowing I was going to be blasted with venom. What was the major problem?

I needed to neaten his duvet.

Thought flashed through my mind....WHAT DID YOUR LAST SLAVE DIE OF?

I reached down and pulled the corner of the duvet down a teeny bit. I did not even need to do that really as it was down already. I told him it was fine.

How dare I do that? No comebacks permitted from 'slave types'. He spat at me in disgust that I had not put it straight when I had removed his night bag plug earlier. I know that I had, I am like a robot covering my tracks when I deal with him so I do not get criticised, shouted at or belittled but still he finds a way. Every flaming time.

I turned on my heels and walked out.

He reminds me of a child who does not feel he gets enough attention from his carer so he makes up any excuse to get attention. Trouble is, he has always been like that.

PS By the way, he is perfectly physically and mentally capable of sorting out his own bed.