One reason why I would make a rubbish 19th century housemaid

There was a point this afternoon, a half hour period - somewhere between 14:15 and 14:45-ish, I'd guess - where everything went to hell in a handbag at Sparky Towers. Ironically immediately after a phone conversation with Sparky Ma where she told me she was having a terrible day and I replied by saying mine was going brilliantly. That'll be karma then.

You see, I own two pairs of jeans that came with instructions not to wash them for the first six months, and instead to bung them in the freezer for a couple of days. I was slightly dubious of this at first, but amazingly they come out smelling fresh and looking brand new. And as something of a bonus, I soon discovered that during the summer months there was nothing more pleasant than covering one's gentlemanly assets with trousers fresh from the arctic wastes of the poultry drawer.

Anyway, the freezer thing worked so well that I decided to keep doing it after the six month period was up - with one caveat: they would be washed if I dropped something on them. Lo and behold, while giddy on gingerbread latte last week I managed to drop milk froth on my leg. I can't remember why I decided the other pair needed a wash as well, but I guess I just decided to go all in.

Let me segue off on a tangent for a second here. A few months back I bought a top that came with the washing instructions 'handwash only.' In hindsight, you'd think I'd just bung it in the freezer, but no, I did as I was told and handwashed it in cold water before hanging it on the shower curtain rail to dry. It went marvellously.

Emboldened by my newfound washer-woman skills, for some reason today I decided I would handwash these two pairs of jeans, despite the fact I was putting the washing machine on anyway. This actually went quite well - until I made my fatal mistake. I decided to hang two sodden pairs of jeans on the shower curtain rail, just as I'd done with that top a few months ago.

And as Yazzle Dazzle later pointed out to me via a sarcasm-laced email:

top: light. Jeans: not. Nuff said!

I might've called her a bitch in my reply.

Another tangent: when I decorated my bathroom a few years ago I couldn't for the life of me get the shower curtain rail down, so I had to paint around where it connected to the wall. Experience now tells me that I should've weighted it down with two wet pairs of jeans, because let me tell you, that thing was ripped CLEAN OFF.

So there I am, moments after the curtain rail has bounced impressively off my head (lucky there's nothing to damage in there), leaving the curtain itself draped over me like the brightly-coloured cape of an inept superhero, with two pairs of jeans and a broken hanger in the bath, swearing like ranty old Mel Gibson despite the fact that no one is around to hear my admittedly creative and excessively colourful metaphors.

It took me about 15 minutes to work out how to hang the shower curtain rail back up again (yes, I'm simple, move on), at which point I thought "I wonder if it would stay up if I hung one pair of jeans at each end…?

The answer, dear reader, is an emphatic NO.

After hanging the shower curtain rail up for a second time, I decided to hang the jeans on either side of the bathroom door. This worked. Unfortunately, they were dripping quite a lot of slightly dye-y water. I'll put some newspaper underneath, I thought! But wait - I don't buy newspapers. I read that sort of tosh on my iPad, and I certainly wasn't going to pop that under them.

And so, of course, I unfurled a leftover roll of birthday wrapping paper and popped that beneath them. That works, I reassured myself, and would also be a super nice surprise in the morning when it actually is my birthday. It'd be like the floor was wishing me a happy birthday.

Then I jumped on a train and headed up down for a bite to eat with Lee who, after I'd related this tale of woe to him, looked at me like I was an utter special. Thus, to cut a long story slightly shorter, as soon as I got home I tutted, rolled my eyes, and bunged both pairs in the washing machine, which quite frankly is exactly what anyone with the merest sliver of sense would've done in the first place.

Let's chalk it up to my imminently advancing years and never speak of it again, yes?