Due to the assumption that everyone is born with the ability to tell the side from the top of a fitted sheet at a glance, each week I leap onto the bed and flail around trying to fit the fitted sheet, one end snapping free as soon as the other is secured. It is possible, if you were wondering, to fit a fitted sheet the wrong way around. I know because I have done so but you have to try really, really hard and be reasonably stupid.

I washed the doona cover a few weeks ago and stuffed the doona back into it, no easy task unless you happen to be skilled in wrestling a feather-filled bag while crouched inside a slightly larger bag.

There may be those who can insert a doona inside a doona cover without crawling inside the cover. I am not among their number. In my solo-living days I attempted to do this while the doona was on the bed. This was a mistake for I had not foreseen that the doona would put up such a fight. In the course of punching and kneeing it into submission, I fell off the bed and bashed my head on the wall.

This excitement triggered an attack of claustrophobia and I all but ripped the doona cover apart in my frantic attempts to escape. I was, however, proud of my success in subduing the doona and made a mental note to take matters to a higher domestic plane. The next time I changed it, I would also iron it - a wildly ambitious scheme, I know, but I was on a roll.

I have yet to do this but it remains on my "to do" list underneath "get rid of wasp nest on balcony" and "buy big matches". The big matches, I should point out, have nothing to do with getting rid of the wasps. Although, I recall that when I was a child, my father would rout them by burning their nests with a blazing torch made from twisted newspaper. I attempted to emulate his efforts once and came uncomfortably close to burning the family home to the ground while the family was still inside it.

The big matches, rather, are for the barbecue as I have found that lighting the barbecue with small matches is causing my hair to recede, each ignition and subsequent "whoooomp!" singeing several hundred more hair strands.

The doona might have been un-ironed but it was clean and crisp, and such was my pride at this accomplishment that I made the mistake of boasting of my domestic achievement to my long-suffering fiancée.

   "Look," I said, indicating the pristine doona cover.
   "It's inside out," she said.
   "Oh," I said, spirits crushed.

These exertions had created an appetite and suddenly I wanted a glass of milk and some cheese and biscuits. So I turned to the pantry and grabbed an opened box of dry crackers. "Funny," I thought as I selected a biscuit. "I don't recall these having holes in the middle." Then I picked out another bickie which also resembled a small doughnut, placed it on a plate and watched in horror as it moved. Aaarrrggghhh!!! The biscuits were alive! My apartment was possessed! Call an exorcist!

I then realised that the biscuits were full of small, bug-like insects. I have since been told by my future wife that they were probably weevils and she now has me in the habit of keeping my biscuits in an airtight biscuit tin.