On Sunday I ran out of knickers. Perhaps I'd better rephrase that. On Sunday I discovered I had no clean underwear.

The reason was simple. The Mother, Keeper of the Washing Machine and Ironing Board, who was visiting her sister in Yorkshire, had been gone for a week, leaving me to fend - and wash - for myself.

Now everyone knows that if two men share a house they'll either be harmoniously drinking lager for breakfast and eating cold baked beans from an open can for dinner, or conversely (as is often the case in Brighton), will be wearing designer pinnies in the kitchen and fretting over an unrisen souffl.

Two women sharing makes for a trickier situation. Harmony is less likely as they vie for domestic territory and power. Such was the case when The Mother moved in with me.

Survival and sanity were at stake so we agreed to share out tasks according to our individual preferences and talents.

Thus it was that I became chief cook and bottle washer, whilst The Mother reigned supreme in the garden and was in charge of the washing machine. Only fair, I suppose, since she brought it with her when she moved in.

And this division of labour seems to have worked.

While I provide everything from breakfast porridge and toast to suppertime cocoa, The Mother weeds and mows and periodically empties the laundry basket, which I have periodically filled.

For her, washing and ironing are two of life's remaining pleasures (let that be a warning against growing old).

"Get up! It's lovely drying weather today," she'll shout, coming into my room at 7am to remove the bedclothes that cover my still slumbering form.

Not surprisingly, it's a couple of years now since I as much as rinsed out a pair of tights. Every item of clothing is washed and pressed for me, all I do is wear it.

On Sunday, like Old Mother Hubbard I went to the cupboard (undies drawer actually), and just like OMH discovered it was bare.

Well, not quite bare. It was devoid of anything except a few pair of Marks & Spencer size ten briefs which haven't been able to accommodate my size 14 rear for several years now.

"Better not let The Mother hear about this," I thought as I emptied the laundry basket into the washing machine.

Unaccustomed as I am to using the washer, I had to follow the instruction booklet.

'Select wash programme . . .' Ah, what shall we have? 'Heavily Soiled Whites?' How dare you! No, a medium temperature, light load should do.

Iswitched on. Nothing happened. Now when The Mother switches on, the washing machine initially purrs like a contented cat before it starts to vibrate happily.

I tried again. Still no luck. Damn! I'd be accused by You Know Who of breaking her pride and joy. And Damn! again, I still had no clean knickers.

Only one thing for it. I rolled up my sleeves, ran half a bathful of warm water and in went the pants. I was tempted to jump in and tread them, like grapes.

Less than 15 minutes later (the washing machine takes 30), my undies were on the line and blowing in the wind.

The Mother phoned in the afternoon.

"What's it like down there in Brighton?" she asked.

"Great," I replied. "It's lovely drying weather here today . . ."