I was in a flap. My parents would be arriving for breakfast in 15 minutes. We had no food in the house, and our silk rug from Singapore was filthy from the ashes that had spilled onto it from our “real effect” gas fire.
I despatched TPR to Tesco to buy stocks of bacon and eggs. Meanwhile I set to work on cleaning the carpet. Throughout I was under the watchful eye of PC. He was debating the options of eating the lump of cod that he had just found in the freezer, or waiting for breakfast to be served.
No amount of hoovering would extract the decade of dirt embedded in the rug. I wondered if I could hide the worst section by changing its orientation and slipping the blackest section under the sofa. Then I spotted something peculiar: two sets of printing on the “silk”. It took moments to decipher the text and discover that our most precious object was not after all a beautiful hand-woven oriental rug, but a mass-produced fake cotton floor covering printed in Sweden and pieced together in China.