I like to sit in bed and read. And if it's a bit nippy I like to wear my manky.

Well no more. There has been a disaster. An unmitigated disaster. A domestic disaster of such horrific proportions I have been for a long walk in the rain and wandered the house like a lost waif all afternoon. Did I mention it's a disaster?

Manky is (was: more to come) an old cardigan. I've always had a manky. They are cardigans no longer fit for outside use. Frayed, holey... buttons missing... given time a cardy will evolve, sliding from cardy to manky.

Then they become a comfort blanket you can wear. Snuggle up in when it's a bit chilly. Slip round your shoulders to watch late night tele. Yes, bits of them get caught on door knobs and sometimes end up a bit shorter than they started but what better for slipping on for bedtime reading?

My latest manky is (was) a quietly unraveling alpaca number in a dusky pink. I did it up with a kilt pin (no buttons) and I'd bought it in 2001. It was soft as a cloud, well alpaca, and reminded me of Peru.

Today I stripped the bed, bundled the sheet, pillowcases and duvet cover into the washing machine, slapped it on eco-wash and got on with sundry housework things. Little did I know manky had got caught up in the bedding.

But yes, I noticed when I saw a washing machine full of PINK 20 minutes later.

I stopped the machine. I hauled everything into the sink. I pulled manky out.

It was too late.

From alpaca cosy thing to steaming, wet lump of matted wool in 10 minutes. Now Manky wouldn't fit a toy poodle.

Oh the bed linen's recovered. One of my white T-shirts is now two-tone pink.

But manky is dead.

*Sigh*