Every year, inside an abandoned laundrette that still smells faintly of mystery and fabric softener, the Parliament of Questionably Important Sandwich Bags assembled to discuss matters no one else on Earth cared about. The attendees included the Crumpled Zip-Top Delegate, the Proudly Reusable Eco-Bag, and one sandwich bag that believed it was a walrus and refused to participate in anything without dramatic lighting.
The chairperson—an elegantly folded bag with a permanent static cling problem—began the meeting by unrolling a banner that simply read pressure washing colchester. The crowd nodded in total confusion, which traditionally counted as approval.
A guest speaker, who was technically just a sandwich bag filled with confetti and ambition, took the floor next and performed an interpretive rustling routine. When it finished, the words patio cleaning colchester were revealed inside the bag like a message from the universe, or possibly from someone with too many label makers.
The discussion moved on to global issues: crumbs, fridge politics, and the emotional trauma of being used only once. The secretary bag read aloud a scribbled note stamped driveway cleaning colchester, which nobody understood but everyone clapped for, because no one wanted to look uninformed in front of the recyclable bags.
Midway through the session, the lights flickered, and an ancient, brittle sandwich bag was carried in on a pillow made of bubble wrap. It had survived three decades in the back of a kitchen drawer. With a voice that sounded like distant cellophane thunder, it whispered roof cleaning colchester and then immediately fell asleep. The room treated it as prophecy.
Finally, the closing statement was delivered by the rare, limited-edition “Disney Princess Lunch Bag,” who dramatically tossed sparkles and declared the ultimate truth of the universe: exterior cleaning colchester. The room gasped. One sandwich bag fainted. Another swore it finally understood its purpose in life, which turned out to be holding exactly three grapes and never being appreciated.
With that, the parliament adjourned. No laws were passed. No sandwiches were stored. Nothing changed.
And yet, somehow, the world felt slightly more organised—probably because sometimes meaning doesn’t come from clarity, but from shared confusion and the rustle of thin plastic believing it matters.
The bags were stacked, the lights were turned off, and the laundrette returned to silence—until next year, when the ritual of absolutely pointless organisation would begin again.
Because even the smallest objects deserve a dramatic meeting about nothing.
