Coming out of the crammed closet

He lifted me in his arms, wrestling my urgent heftiness with a swearing stagger up the stairs.

Imagining an X-rated slither over the en-suite tile, I toed the immersion switch with a deft welly as we lurched by. He fell through my bedroom door, took one sweated look around, and... dropped me.

What is it that reduces otherwise organised housekeepers to adolescent cupboard crammers in their own bedrooms?