The proof of the pudding

I almost don't believe it. It defies comprehension. As Mark Twain said in his stirring piece on the literary crimes of James Fenimore Cooper, 'You would not guess what happened in a hundred years, so I will tell you.'

It was a Good Day, and I came home from work feeling amazingly bright and energetic. I mentioned to Michael as we ate that I would have to change out of my work clothes, because I wanted to bake. This is very good. Usually I am asleep in bed at this time. I repeated my intentions and the evening itinerary perhaps three times. I was wearing a black skirt, which is irresistible to flour. Michael went out to mow. I realised we are out of milk. Bother. Will have to run to store before I can make cornbread. Will just start with cookies for now.

So there I am in the kitchen stirring up chocolate chip cookies, and whoosh goes a gust of white flour down the front of my long black skirt, which I have somehow forgotten to change. It is astounding. It is so comical that I have to run out and tell Michael all about it.