Tonight, me and Lyn discovered that there's a black hole in our apartment that sucks our forks into its solar mass, transports them into a parallel dimension and, by ways of tidal force, returns them as extra socks with no matching pair.
The result being, that we have to eat with our fingers (which is a right mess with spaghetti) and then accidently soil everything we touch because our fingers are permanently sticky.
Now, the next best thing to do (as we have been advised by a good friend) would usually be to put the socks back into the hamper to the sock-elf in there that can conduct the switch back from cotton to metal. If only we had a real hamper. Meaning if only my dear flat mate wouldn't abuse her proper hamper as a coffee table/rummage box/clothes hanger/luggage rack/place-to-put-things-when-I-need-to-tidy-up-box.
Now she's on the roof of our house throwing all our socks skywards yelling to outer space: "I want my forks back!!!"

We'll see what happens.