I am, like most enlightened men, reasonably adept at household duties. I cook food and wash the dishes almost every day, make the beds, and even stretch to the occasional dusting and hovering. But there is one chore which I suck at, despite my best efforts: the laundry.

Having simple tastes in clothes – t-shirts being obligatory – I can safely throw my clothes into the machine and press any combination of buttons, knowing full well the outcome will be satisfactory.

As soon as it comes to Jo’s garments, however, the laundry becomes a game of poker: this garment can only be washed at thirty degrees; this top mustn’t be centrifuged; these two items in the same wash will cause famine in Chad.

Even after all these pre-wash shenanigans, I have to find all of jo’s tops, now hidden deep within duvet covers, and give the body part a pull, to prevent shrinkage.

What? Am I the only person who has never partaken in what is obviously an ingrained part of the laundry culture? Come to think of it, I do own a couple of t-shirts that now unflatteringly reveal my midriff, but since my memory is a bit rubbish I just thought they were like that when I bought them

I have ruined a fair few of Jo’s clothes with my lackadaisical approach, and the future bodes no better either.

The simple fact is that the words mohair, chiffon and crimplene are as near to the contents of my wardrobe as they are to the Queen’s Christmas Speech.