I'm talking about the availability of freshly laundered underwear of course. This could only mean one thing ...I'd have to learn to work the washing machine!
Don't run away with the idea that I'm some old fashioned sexist beast who doesn't do housework. Oh no, I am a modern metro-sexual male who knows one end of a Dyson from the other and sometimes uses as many as four rings when warming up ready made pasta. (I was going to use two rings but he was still busy solving the enigma code).
Early on in our relationship it was agreed that Mrs Rine would handle all my underpants and I would look after the dishwashing. She does the laundry and I load the Smegging Dishwasher which demands fantastic technical Krypton-Factor type skills and spatial intelligence of the highest order. After 10 days without me she's probably run out of cups and saucers.
But the clothes washing can't be Rocket Science can it? I bunged all the clothes in the machine, turned the dial to 40 degrees (which is incidentally Werner Von Braun's educational attainment in rocket science), lit up an imaginary fag and put my imaginary feet up on the table to continue my busy morning's net-loafing.
Once the cycle had finished (1 hour 50 minutes) and I'd worked out how to extract the washing (17 minutes) I hung it out to dry and thought to myself how clever I was - from Smeg to Smug!
As I examined the wash, however, I couldn't help noticing that things like my white socks hadn't returned to their vestal perfection but remained steadfastly, er, black. Nothing seemed to sparkle like it did on the detergent adverts when they used to show them between programmes on ITV.
It slowly dawned on me that I had missed a vital stage in the whole process by not putting the little block of washing detergent thingy in the drawer thingy at the front of the machine.
"From Smug back to Smeg", muttered Oz under his breathe but distinctly audibly.