Easy like Saturday morning in the West Wing of Broom Acres (call me Martin) and the little woman that does, aka Er Indoors, is doing. Middler is helping too, so The Boy decides to show his Solidarity by grabbing a duster. Somehow -- the details are a haze -- he finds himself in possession of the spray can of polish.

Next thing I hear is, er, nothing. It's quiet: too quiet, at least from my leafy glade at the dining table. Then, as if Russell Crowe had commanded it, hell is unleashed. GLW has gone ballistic and is barking at youngest: What have you done with the spray? You've used it all up, you silly boy! There follows an untranscribable noise indicating level 11 annoyance and the empty can is hurled into the bin, slam dunk.

I stay out of the admonitions -- none of my beeswax -- but head upstairs like a SoCO to The Boy's room. The ether is heavy with scent, Lodz of it, and his duster is sodden. I lower the sash: straightaway the fresh air begins to permeate his bedroom; unfortunately the atmosphere remains black as your hat in the remainder of the household, esp. around GLW.

They call him The Polisher.