Infamy and Betrayal!

Lament with me, gentle readers, for the inevitable has happened...

With the arrival of Lady Chocolat, life in the Apartment of Mirth has seen a great many changes, many of them trivial and others far more significant. One that seemed trivial was LC's quite unreasonable assertion that my policy of doing my washing on a Thursday was totally unacceptable. (It's not like I have a shortage of clothes, you understand - I had a suitable abundance of socks that I could last a whole month if pressed to it.)

Anyway, I managed to get away with it for the first week. LC was distracted with the task of moving in and finding homes for most of her stuff, and so I was able to merrily postpone the weekly wash until Thursday. And all was well with the world... for a while.

It couldn't last, of course. I had to return to work last week, and so was not able to stand guard any longer. And, as we all know, the price of not having your t-shirts ironed is eternal vigilance...

And so, yesterday while I was busy cooking an epic dinner, LC stealthily hijacked the living room and did a whole bunch of ironing, quite in defiance of the "no housework at weekends" policy. Truly, it was a horror!

But worse was to come later, when I found myself confronted with a pile of t-shirts, all of them carefully ironed and folded! I mean, what was I to make of this new infamy? Clearly, t-shirts are not meant for such things - they should be washed, hung, and any remaining creases left to fall out when subjected to body heat. That's the rule, and if it leaves them a bit scruffy-looking, well, that's just part of my Han Solo-esque charm. (!)

Well, it turned out that even that was not the full extent of the horrors to come. In fact, the ironed t-shirts were nothing more than a cunningly-placed distraction, because when I turned to the pile of socks...

No, I can't go on. It's too painful.

...

...

sob

...

When I turned to the pile of socks, one of them was missing!

Yes, it's true. After more than a decade of doing my own washing, and never once losing a single sock, and then less than a week after letting my guard down, the sock conspiracy have struck!

(And this after LC spent months, months denying the very existence of the conspiracy, and becoming quite indignant that I persisted in my scepticism! Oh perfidious sex! Oh, sweetest betrayal! And to think that my poor socks must pay the price!)

(Oh, ridiculous hyperbole?)

Lament with me, gentle readers. The inevitable has happened...

(Incidentally, if I can find a way to tie this in to EU recycling targets and the end of the Mayan calendar, I might just have the plot for my bestselling novel - "The Sock Conspiracy", an hilarious parody of a Dan Brown novel in which our hero, a professor of sockology unveils an horrific secret...)