Helping to clean the kitchen yesterday, I was forced to look into the bin, the fridge and various containers at one and the same time. Having only the requisite number of eyes, my concentration wavered, but this is fairly common for me these days.

By the fridge’s open door, aluminium stepladders were leaning against the kitchen wall, waiting to be stored out of sight by the side of the fridge. All kitchens function with the help of pipes and skirting boards that create spaces between durables and walls. In these all-important nooks and crannies go brushes, floor wipers, window-hook poles, and onion slices that many months previously had skittered off cutting-boards along with occasional bits of thumb.

Some of the contents in the fridge containers had fur on them, others had changed colour in a disturbing manner. Others still were tantalisingly full but dangerously old. But after serial calculation about how many Rwandans could live off a giant jar of cornichons for a week, most of this stuff went into the bin liner en route to the local poubelle.

The boring and guilt-ridden task at last completed, I fell over and found myself underneath a pair of aluminium stepladders.

As you might imagine, this last bit wasn’t in the script. The general idea was to close the fridge door and move swiftly on to putting our thirty-seven attractive white plastic pool-chairs into the cellar. But it isn’t a good idea, after a certain age, to have four things to think about – and only two eyes.

When I was a kid and into sci-fi, there was a novel called Trouble with Lichen by John Wyndham. Somehow, Trouble with Stepladders doesn’t draw the reader in quite so irresistibly.

My reputation goes before me in such things, and I’m aware that most people who know me will assume alcohol had something to do with this incident, but it didn’t. Had this been the case, my fall would’ve been more relaxed.

However, later yesterday I discovered this marvellous American site. I commend it to Sloggers everywhere.