Maid to Order | Sarah Doyle
The kitchen gleamed, a symphony of satisfying, chrome-glinting silver. Coffee burbled cheerfully in its percolator, imbuing the carefully-conditioned air with the internationally recognised smell of all-is-well-in-the-home.
With feet curled under her in the white-furnished sitting room, Margaret luxuriated in the couch’s cushioned embraced as her new Maid-o-Tron 3000 bustled about its business. A domestic doyenne on sleek, rolling feet, complete with 1950’s-style apron tied round its rotund metal middle, the Maid-o-Tron had been a godsend. Margaret finally had all the ‘me’ time she’d ever craved, and more besides. She munched contentedly on her Choc-o-Bic, allowing her metallic minion to siphon up the crumbs uncomplainingly from the floor around her.
Several of Margaret’s neighbours in Bienvenue Avenue had already taken delivery of their Maid-o-Trons and it irked her that she had had to wait for several months until her name finally reached the top of the well-to-do waiting list. Clearly, the other ladies were revelling in their new-found freedom and abundant leisure time, as she had hardly seen any of them in weeks. Free from the shackles of house-management, their days were no doubt an ecstatic blur of expert foot massages, aromatherapy facials and fine dining, behind the carefully-polished Mirr-o-Glass exteriors of their homes. How they’d rubbed her nose in it when their helpful heroines had arrived and hers had not. Well, all that was about to change now, thought Margaret, yawning and extending a foot in anticipation of that longed-for massage.
For its own part, the Maid-o-Tron was experiencing a profound sense of job-dissatisfaction. The home was clinically clean, inside and out, the puzzlingly reappearing crumbs dispensed with once again, and yet…
This large piece of cumbersome domestic debris was troubling. What to do? What? To? Do? It riffled through its multi-mega byte memory to alight, as it had been programmed to do, on a suitable solution.
Of course. The on-board waste-disposal system would do perfectly.
Advancing happily towards the dozing woman, blades whirring efficiently, the Maid-o-Tron commenced its task. At last, order from chaos; cleanliness from filth. All would be well once again.
The kitchen gleamed, a symphony of satisfying, chrome-glinting silver. Coffee burbled cheerfully in its percolator, imbuing the carefully-conditioned air with the internationally recognised smell of all-is-well-in-the-home.
With feet curled under her in the white-furnished sitting room, Margaret luxuriated in the couch’s cushioned embraced as her new Maid-o-Tron 3000 bustled about its business. A domestic doyenne on sleek, rolling feet, complete with 1950’s-style apron tied round its rotund metal middle, the Maid-o-Tron had been a godsend. Margaret finally had all the ‘me’ time she’d ever craved, and more besides. She munched contentedly on her Choc-o-Bic, allowing her metallic minion to siphon up the crumbs uncomplainingly from the floor around her.
Several of Margaret’s neighbours in Bienvenue Avenue had already taken delivery of their Maid-o-Trons and it irked her that she had had to wait for several months until her name finally reached the top of the well-to-do waiting list. Clearly, the other ladies were revelling in their new-found freedom and abundant leisure time, as she had hardly seen any of them in weeks. Free from the shackles of house-management, their days were no doubt an ecstatic blur of expert foot massages, aromatherapy facials and fine dining, behind the carefully-polished Mirr-o-Glass exteriors of their homes. How they’d rubbed her nose in it when their helpful heroines had arrived and hers had not. Well, all that was about to change now, thought Margaret, yawning and extending a foot in anticipation of that longed-for massage.
For its own part, the Maid-o-Tron was experiencing a profound sense of job-dissatisfaction. The home was clinically clean, inside and out, the puzzlingly reappearing crumbs dispensed with once again, and yet…
This large piece of cumbersome domestic debris was troubling. What to do? What? To? Do? It riffled through its multi-mega byte memory to alight, as it had been programmed to do, on a suitable solution.
Of course. The on-board waste-disposal system would do perfectly.
Advancing happily towards the dozing woman, blades whirring efficiently, the Maid-o-Tron commenced its task. At last, order from chaos; cleanliness from filth. All would be well once again.