So I was mopping my house today, and thinking "gee, this may be the last time I use this particular mop" and so on. The mop in particular is an old-fangled string one, the best kind of mop. When those mops are new they are so-so. Not terribly moppy or absorbent and too sproingy and pouffy to wring out properly. It takes them a few weeks to lose their newness and become just right: stringy, squeezy and friendly to dirt. A boon to teak floors everywhere. A broken-in mop understands how to be a mike stand or dance partner in the mopping adventures of life.
Are you with me here? Good.
But then. After a while, a string mop begins to fall apart. It looks depressed and bits fall off. The strings thin. But you hang on, week after week, because once you buy a new mop you have to break it in all over again! So there you are, thinking "goodbye, old mop" and singing "Oooooh Danny Booooy", three-stepping through the dry patches and picking up bits of string as you go. Dragging out those last moments, because parting is such sweet sorrow. And thinking, "There must be a metaphor in this, somewhere".
But damned if I can find it.