I've never been one to wash my dirty linen in public - not, that is, since I got married and acquired a twin tub of my very own.

Over the 30 years or so since then, washing machines of all makes and sizes have rinsed, spun and tumbled their way through my kitchen and through my life.

Early models worked hard and had to deal with nappies and fleecy cot blankets, then came Star Wars underpants and schoolboy soccer shorts, followed by Levi jeans and trendy hooded tops from Gap.

Now the meagre contents of my laundry basket are evidence of a more solitary lifestyle and require the washing machine's attention no more than twice a week. Or so it was until The Mother joined the household.

For The Mother, a day has not been truly lived unless she's put out a line of fresh washing to flap in the breeze or hang dismally in the chill winter air. Unless it's alive and moving, The Mother will wash it.

But on Saturday morning her daily schedule fell apart. She switched on the washer and went out, when she returned the kitchen floor was awash with sudsy water.

"It's an old machine, you've worked it to death," I said.

"Well, we'll have to use mine," she replied.

Unfortunately, The Mother's washing machine, a new, flashy sort of brute boasting around 20 different programmes, is not plumbed in. It's been double-parked in the kitchen since she came to live with me. I said she should sell it and use mine, she reckoned mine should be sold for scrap and hers take its place.

So there we were, a two washing machine household but neither one working.

"There's only one thing for it," I said on Sunday morning. "We'll have to go public . . . we'll have to go to the launderette."

Now, to be fair, the launderette is within walking distance of my house - it's not as if you have to get a bus or take a packed lunch and make a day of it. But The Mother was not happy.

As far as she was concerned I might just as well have said we were going to take our grubby linen (cotton and polyester actually) down to some riverbank and, together with a few hundred others, give it a good communal drubbing as they do on washday in some developing countries.

Before we left, I noticed she'd pushed her underwear and nighties inside a pillowcase to avoid them being seen by those of a prurient disposition.

Sadly she was to be disappointed. The only other soul in the launderette was an elderly man reading The Argus.

The Mother and I arranged to split washing duties. She would put the washing in, I would collect it an hour or so later.

When I returned, the launderette was empty. I opened the washer, pulled out the contents and walked home.

"This isn't ours," said The Mother. And indeed it wasn't. It was a collection of men's socks, shirts and Y fronts.

"Wet washing all looks the same to me," I muttered.

"Oh God," said The Mother. "I wonder who's got my nighties and knickers?

"They're probably looking at them right now!"

She was on the phone to the plumber first thing Monday morning.