Having bored him to tears on another occasion by waxing lyrical about my prized collection of vintage cornishware china, he was more well informed about the importance of the dishes he was about to wash than perhaps he might have wanted to be. Especially after he dropped one and broke it.
The silence that roared like a lion from the direction of the kitchen moments after the sound of breaking china told me all I needed to know. It was cornishware circa 1930, too precious even for cursing.
I inhaled. Several times. I reminded myself this wasn't the death of my first born and went to inspect which piece of the collection had fallen victim to the brutality of a man let loose in the kitchen.
It was a bowl. My heart was in about as many pieces at it was, but I sucked it up and made out it wasn't a big deal. Accidents happen. Things break.
Once.
When I heard the sound of breaking china less than a minute later it's fair to say my ability to feel compassion had waned.
In fact it's fair to say I was about as dangerous as a bull in a china shop. Except perhaps it's best not to mention china. It hurts too much.
After the second break (this time a cornishware mug from the 70s), my boyfriend found himself relieved from washing dishes and assigned a seat on the couch well clear of anything even remotely breakable.
As I finished up the job without further incident, I couldn't help wondering how well positioned his slippery fingers had made him.
Never again would he have to wash the dishes.
This came in the wake of several dismal attempts teaching him how to cook (well, in truth the lesson never really got beyond teaching him how to cut a tomato).
The net result was that his failures had put him in the extremely enviable position of not ever having to cook or clean again.
In his defence this was a fair trade since in all other practical pursuits, including replacing my defective plumbing, he passed with flying colours.
But it did draw my attention to the benefits that could generally be derived from being absolutely crap at something.
There are all sorts of things I hate doing but that I persist with simply because it never occurred to me before that if I made a total hash of it I wouldn't be asked again.
The trouble is now the cat is out of the bag - everyone who knows me knows I can cook, clean, sew on buttons and pimp other people's CVs, online dating profiles and Facebook photos to within an inch of their lives.
From now on though, the gloves are off: next time I am asked to do anything even remotely unpleasant, my first thought is not going to be "can I do this?" but "can I get away with doing this really, really badly?"
Eva Bradley is an award-winning columnist.
