What a nightmare of a week it was, not least because I had to iron my own shirt two days in a row.

Before I discuss the implications of the ironing issue, it is worth putting the past seven days into perspective.

Things got off to a bad start when a man aged at least 103 crashed into my car after he forgot to stop at a roundabout on the Captain Cook Highway.

Both cars were stuffed, but I managed to yank and curl the metal away from the crushed back wheel carriage just enough to drive to the side of the road.

I then discovered the driver who slammed into me didn't have insurance, which was almost as unpleasant as the
crash itself.

That was Sunday, so my situation was made even worse when I realised I would have to face the start of the working week by catching a bus.

By the time the bus reached me on Monday morning it was standing room only.

But standing was difficult because the driver attacked every corner at breakneck speed, making it nearly impossible to stay upright.

When Tuesday morning rolled around, I was well and truly fed up with the whole waiting-for-the-bus situation, let alone the part where I had to get on it and attempt to stand up for 15 minutes of driving hell.

But the real peak of this nightmarish week arrived on Wednesday, when my better half slept in.

Normally our morning routine is a fine art of scheduling and teamwork.

While I shower and shave, she irons my shirt. Then she takes a shower while I make breakfast for us.

Then we take Ziggy our mongrel dog for a quick walk, before we hop in the car to drive to our respective jobs.

That delicate process was thrown into chaos on Wednesday, and I haven't been the same since.

The schedule was thrown so far out of whack by the sleeping-in bit that my better half did not have time to iron
my shirt.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but surely it is obvious that we should perform the household chores we are best at, in the interests of efficiency and synergy.

In other words, the missus irons my shirt because she is able to do it quickly and easily. In exchange, I make breakfast because pouring milk on to cereal is a task simple enough for me to achieve before 7.30am.

So on this fateful Wednesday morning she drove the car to work because she was running late, leaving me to iron my own shirt, make myself breakfast, walk Ziggy and catch the bus.

Of course, all of this extra work made me miss the bus.

Simply missing the bus is never quite as painful as being close enough to see it pass by while you're running towards it from the other side of the road.

And, in a frightening case of devilish deja vu, the exact same pattern of events happened on Thursday morning.

On Friday I was so disturbed I came to work with a crumpled shirt and an empty stomach, only to face a bevy of furious female colleagues outraged by my complaints about having to iron my own shirt. Twice.