Why do wellies only fall over as one kicks them off when one has a large basket of wood in one’s arms, and are managing to stay upright only because of some sort of divine justice which – just to keep you guessing – does not find the concept of seeing one flat on one’s proverbial in the mud amusing this time?

Why does one only unplug the phone when one has forgotten one is waiting for some blighter to ring one back about something?

Why, of the entire kitchen floor, is the bit in front of the washing machine, i.e. right where the washing falls when one ineptly fumbles about at it in semi-darkness due to not having lighting sorted yet, the very grubbiest, despite attempts to clean it?

Why does Posset, an adventurous Buff Sussex chicken who appears to have been Scott of the Antarctic in a previous life, insist on escaping when I am in the middle of changing a grumpy witchling’s nappy?