I have been a helpful man-about-the-house and have got the washing in, folded and put away.
"Where," I ask myself, "Where should I put this large, teetering pile of badly-folded towels?"
After seconds of deliberation, I decide that, yes, they should go on the very top shelf in the bathroom, on top of another large, teetering pile of badly-folded towels. For they will be safe there, in the company of their teetering, badly-folded friends.
Two cups of tea from the magic kettle and a bowl of Weetibangs.
There is a loud "DOOF" from the bathroom, a muffled scream, followed by silence.
Swallowing hard on the last of my Weetabix, I investigate and find a scene of baby-soft carnage.
Jane is sprawled under a large, teetering pile of badly-folded towels.
"They doofed me," she said at length, "They doofed me right on the head. DOOF."
"That... That... That's TERRIBLE," I say, "How the devil could that have happened?"
"Doof," she says.
Guilt: It is mine.