I shot my butler. R500's faults were many, burning the morning toast, giving me a crumpled newspaper to read, ushering guests into the wrong rooms to name a few. Robots should know better, after all their programming is far superior to our brains.

After a week of complaints from Marie, my third wife, the sexiest one I've had, R500 had to go. I used my new rifle to shoot him outside in the garden, scaring the peacocks strutting around on the lawn.

Obviously it was the wrong method of dispatch, he's back in the house, ironing my dress shirt for the cocktail party this evening, oblivious to the attempt on his life. Or that's what he's pretending.

I'll wait a few days before trying again.