Harvey has a secret.
He is a knicker-fetishist.
He has kept his urges under control for some time now (or rather we have kept the opportunities to indulge away from him) but tonight, with the washing machine kerfuffle and laundry lying around waiting its turn for the machine, he has been in his element.
There are items of underwear everywhere you look through the house: at my feet in the study; next to the sofa in the lounge; near the front door waiting to greet any visitors.
That's another of Harvey's eccentricities: he must have something in his mouth when he greets people. He is physically unable to enjoy sniffing a crotch unless his mouth is full. If he can't find a towel (in the absence of knickers), his blankie or Younger Son's best jumper, he wanders round frantically, torn between his longing to be welcoming and his desperate need to have something in his mouth.
He is a very strange dog. (I can say that as he is asleep in the kitchen.)
Now to sort out the kitchen.
Younger Son has been an angel tonight, offering to mop up the flood as it happened just as I was about to leave for circuit training, and cooking dinner so it was ready for me to eat when I got home. And yummy it was too.
But the machine is still out of place, there are dishes to be done, and underwear to be gathered. So on with it.