DOOF: AN APOLOGY

Last night.

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.

Job done.

---

This morning.

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.

I flee.

"Doof."

Guilt: It is mine.