Every couple develops their own little rituals, little domestic patterns of behaviour, patterns that you very often scarcely notice, but which give comfort to both: the comfort of consistency, the comfort of familiarity. Two people moving in the comfortably worn, familiar, soothing patterns of mutually satisfactory domesticity.

Little rituals that you scarcely notice unless one of them drives the other mad.

Every night, when I get undressed for bed, I put such items as require it in the laundry basket, conveniently located on the floor next to the shelves on which our clothes are stored. Such items as can be worn again are hung or folded, and put away. Then I wash my face, read for a bit. If Matthew is in bed and awake, there's usually ten minutes of snuggling and talk before we turn out the light. Sometimes the snuggling becomes more ... focussed ... and takes considerably longer than ten minutes, but we'll fade to black on that. It is not the point of this post.

Every night, when he gets undressed for bed (often, though not always, at the same time as me), Matthew leaves his clothes in a heap on the floor beside the laundry basket. Then he brushes his teeth, reads for a while. (Ditto the snuggling and talk and fade-to-black as per paragraph above.)

I have no idea why his laundry has to spend the night on the floor. Usually (though not always) it makes it to the basket in the morning. I have asked him why; as I have utterly no recollection of his answer, it is clear to me that it was neither convincing nor compelling. However, whatever it was, it is both convincing and compelling for Matthew, because, happy in having explained all to my satisfaction, he blithely continues in this irksome habit. Not wanting to disappoint his cheerful self, and, because generally he does put it all away in the morning, I have decided to let it go.

So what if the socks'n'boxers'n'shirt'n'jeans sit in a rumpled heap in the dark overnight? No skin off my nose. Once it's dark, I can't see them. Once I'm asleep, I'm unaware of them. It's a small thing, a fleeting thing, an insignificant little quirk.

AND IT DRIVES ME CRAZY!!!

But here is my dilemma: To object to such a small thing would be petty, and I deplore pettiness. I will not admit it in myself, nor, worse, display it to the man I love. The nightly freeing of the laundry is a very small thing. And he has his reason -- whatever it was -- for this little domestic Chinese water torture ritual.

Despite all my nobler inclinations, despite my efforts to rise above it all, it still irks me. Whenever I pass by the laundry basket -- sometimes to see a sock, or even the sleeve of a shirt draped, in tantalizing potentiality, right over the rim! (Why not all the way in? Why? WHY?) -- it irks me.

So I've come up with a solution, brilliant in its simplicity. Every morning, when he is in the bathroom, I take from his pocket the largest value coin in there: a loonie or a twonie. So far, in two weeks of employing this new strategy, I have accumulated close to $20.

Now when I see that heap o'laundry in the evening, instead of an itch of exasperation, I feel a small rise of smug vengeance, knowing that in the morning, he'll pay for the privilege of parking his clothes outside the designated area.

It's a system that works for both of us. One of those little domestic rituals that evolve between couples, enabling us to rub along with minimum of abrasion, a ritual and a pattern that brings comfort and satisfaction to both.

And it's not petty. Nuh-uh. Not at all.