I am lucky enough to have a boy-genius for a beloved.
He can cook like a crazy cooking demon; he can rewire anything that needs rewiring, and even things that dont; he can write like a writey thing, think like a thinky thing and talk like a talky thing better than most anyone I know; hes logical, reasonable, rational and can leap over tall buildings in a single bound.
Why, then, I meet with blank stare every time I attempt to explain the correct way to hang up a wet shirt/top/trouser, is a mystery. Why, if left to it, I discover a pile of crumpled clothes with soggy rolled up sleeves, wet arses and whole wrinkles of garment damp and smelly where they were skooshed up the drying frame to make room for 19,000 other things rather than stretched out.
Is there some type of logical washing-hanging-up gene thats overridden by testosterone?
Or is this ACTUALLY a lame attempt to make sure I always have the pleasure of hanging up the damn washing?