Innocent Until Proven Guilty

Now then, it's not every day you wake up to the sight of a bloody massacre in your front room. And yet this morning as I stumbled around trying to shake off sleep and the relentless sound of my daughter crying, an appalling sight hit my eyes. Dark blood was spattered everywhere: from wall to ceiling, floor to sofa, everything was covered in a sticky red mess, leaving my room looking like Stephen King's first foray into interior design and smelling sweetly of road kill.

Slightly panicking, I looked around for any bodies and an explanation of the curious night-time events. Perhaps I had left the front door open: a clear invitation for East Finchley's notorious psychopath to enter and slaughter a range of small rodents by the dining table? Maybe Lucy had been up late again watching Driller Killer and decided to experiment?

Or was it more sinister? Oddly, the only thing untouched by goo was the latest IKEA catalogue. Could the local branch of Swedish furniture lovers be to blame, angered by the absence of any Besta Jagra storage combinations, and the fact that a paltry two tea lights were the only lighting solution on show?

And then I saw it. A small, not so innocent smoothie bottle, nestling smuggly on my top shelf: bleeding its last between Middlemarch and Captain Corelli. The bastard had decided to ferment and explode in the middle of the night, leaving its innards all over the room.

So yes, it really has come to this - 31 years of life and here I am obsessing about an exploding drink, and elbow deep in cleaning products trying to get the stains out of my carpet. My advice to you all? Just don't leave bottles of blackberry juice on the arm of your sofa. Innocent my arse: they only get all lonely and enraged, and they're a real bitch to clean up.