One time, I was getting ready for work, and I asked my wife:
“Where’s that blue shirt I bought?“
”There.“
“…meaning where?”
”In the room.“
”The living room or the bedroom?“
“The bedroom.”

I went into the bedroom and opened the wardrobe door. No shirt in sight. I called out:

“It’s not here.“
”It is.”
“It really isn’t…”
”Look in the wardrobe.“
”I’m looking in it right now. It’s not here!“
“Well look a bit more carefully!”
”I’m telling you, it’s not here!”

I could hear my wife’s footsteps approaching — that terrible, inevitable sound you hear just before you’re proved wrong about something. She walked into the room, went up to the wardrobe, and without even looking, thrust her hand in among the hangers and pulled out the shirt. She looked at me and her eyes said a thousand words I didn’t want to hear out loud. Then she walked out.

I stood staring at the wardrobe, thinking to myself, I hate you, wardrobe. And I hate the fridge as well!

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