The Winter Olympic sport of 'curling' is actually just a lot of bored people on laundry day.
I just spent the last 20 minutes pottering around my bedroom like a loon attempting to curate an outfit in which I could do my laundry which is almost as difficult a task as forging a golden ring in the fiery pits of Mordor.
This happens every week, mind, and each time I realise with a degree of thunderous melodrama that washing day means I have to wash ALL the things and that leaves me with nothing to wear while the laundry does its thing.
So I get all MacGuyver on my stuff and start trying on shirts the size of windsocks, pants where the crotch has fallen out (this is a long and recurring problem I have with pants, like the universe is trying desperately to claw through my trousers and directly to my groin for as yet undisclosed cosmic reasons) and holding pieces of paper and discarded receipts up to my nipples in a daft attempt to see whether they might provide adequate cover in the event I find nothing else to wear.
Anybody could burst through the door and see my laying semi naked on the couch covered in receipts, assuming I was either very lonely or I had made an inaugural attempt to do my own tax and somehow ended up pants-less with a drinking problem, which is highly likely.
The sad thing is, of course, that my laundry is inside my house so it's not like I need to look beautiful or even halfway decent. That's why we have houses, so we can be the absolute distillation of the awfully indecent human beings we are deep down. Admit it.
If the laundry were down the street and, you know, around people it would all make perfect sense.
But sitting around at home alone in a collage of fabric and old clothes is a bit like Schrodinger's Rick: if nobody can study me I am both gorgeous, immaculately groomed and a disgusting realisation of all that is wrong in the world.
AT THE SAME TIME.
And there you have it, quantum mechanics and sartorial commentary on a Sunday with a hangover.
Or maybe I'm still drunk?