Today I woke up and contemplated the mess that is my house. The piles of laundry that needed doing. The messy kitchen floor. The piles of crumbs, nay, mountains of crumbs, under the dining table. I even caught an odour of Henry the Pig From Guinea's cage, and let me tell you, it was not a particularly pleasant smell. Then some insane compulsion compelled me to open the dryer and what should I find there but a long forgotten pile of half-dried laundry. The whereabouts of Dominic's many many pairs of up-till-then-missing underwear were no longer a complete and utter mystery to me. I could see them, deep in the the dryer's depths, lying damply and rather, err, fragrantly (note to self: don't leave half dried laundry for more than 4 days). It was a depressing sight and it was only 7am. What could be next, I wondered, cat poo under the bed? A crust of unidentifiable guk in my coffee cup? Or worse: no milk for my morning latté? To be honest, that was the scariest of propositions, because I am a slave to my morning coffee. And I freely admit it. I'm even proud of it, so there.
Since Richard (aka The Tidy One) had already departed for his hunter/gatherer grounds, I felt free to photograph the laundry pile, but I can't quite bring myself to add it to this post. It's evidence. And when one is married to a Tidy Person, that's about all one needs, and I am not the most thick-skinned of people.
Never mind, I can wait until Richard comes back from his slog of a day. I'm sure he'll clean up a bit.