Some of my dear readers are blessed with knowing me in Real Life - as in outside the Interweb.
They know that I normally lead a life of peaceful contemplative solitude, interspersed with high adventure - but chiefly that my domestic arrangements are ones of clean simplicity as I immerse my self in the noble self discipline of an uncluttered existence.
But, alas, there is a slow creeping hegemony going on. As relentless as the tide, it marches it's fripperous way into my life, and it's sinister tendrils invade my pristine existence with the dark and malevolent forces of no-good-at-all.
It started simply. A woman moves in to my spare room - a damsel in distress and I am duty bound to assist.
But that carries risks, you see. Not only have the wine glasses been turning up on the wrong shelf - but other things arrive.
Oh, it all starts innocent enough. The special decorative olive oil thing in the kitchen.
Fabric softener for the electric laundry unit.
Then there are the bottles.
Creams oils and unguents for the bathroom, multicoloured vials containing I know not what.
I let all this go with a resigned smile - I must be accommodating and I do wish my house guest to feel at home.
But as sure as a lioness marks her scent, there are markers, cropping up.
The surest sign I noticed this morning as I took my cold shower, applied the dettol to the wire brush and set about my thinning locks with the vosene.
In special holders.
In the Bathroom.
I stood as one thunderstruck when the terrible realisation dawned - and my soul filled with cold dread.
It Is A Slippery Slope.
The Thin End Of The Wedge.
I leaped from the shower and instantly logged on to wiki to confirm my worst fears.
A Woman's Touch.
It is only going to get worse. Now I have a particular friend visiting for tea and sandwiches on occasion, I am fairly certain that this is indeed the Thin End Of The Wedge.
A grim future awaits - scatter cushions, fabric softener, mood lighting and 'Coordinated Interiors'.
Is it any wonder us chaps have Sheds?