I DON'T do much around the house.

This fact, regularly corresponded to all and sundry by my wife, means that when I am asked to do something of a domestic nature, the pressure is really on.

Like many men whose working day revolves around making dozens of decisions, large and small, my brain appears to turn to mush the moment I walk through the front door of my home.

This means that the simplest domestic request has to encounter all manner of cerebral hurdles before being formulated into a completed task.

I put it down to my brain being full, while my wife assures me that for a brain to achieve fullness, a man firstly has to possess one and stresses I am sadly lacking in that department.

Take bin day, for example.

It is my job to transport our wheelie bin the five yards to the pavement on Wednesday morning.

(The arrival of a lovely blue recycling bin, which has to be put out every other Thursday, has intensified the pressure on me, but I appear to be handling it well.)

I had a dental appointment the other day which altered my normal working day routine.

Psychologically, this is bad for a man and especially one with the memory capacity of a slightly forgetful goldfish.

So when I spotted the bin lorry pulling away from outside our house and realised I had not put the bin out, I saw my hopes of short-term marital bliss going the same way as the refuse being chewed up inside the vehicle.

It was at that point that I should have taken at least one vital second to remember that (a) I was barefoot and (b) wearing only a towelling robe.

I should also have remembered that a dustbin overflowing with rubbish is considerably less manoeuvrable than an empty one.

My first mistake was trying to take the bin round the short wall at high speed.

It teetered on one wheel before crashing to the pavement and spilling way too much of its contents.

Having righted the bin and reinstated most of the rubbish, I set off again. The lorry was now 100 yards away, but had at least stopped again.

Fifty yards before reaching my destination and with the bin now firmly gripped in two hands reaching behind me, I strode manfully forward.

That's when the gust of wind caught my dressing gown.

As the cord had worked loose after my exertions, the man on the back of the lorry - probably used to seeing some unusual sights in the heady world of refuse disposal - was treated to a sight which at the very worst, put him off his lunch and at the very best, gave him a renewed feeling of self-confidence.

Bin day, it has to be said, now features in red ink in my diary... every week.

First published: Oct 11